


WIPs and Things That May or May Not Actually Get Finished

by OomnyDevotchka



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Merlin (TV) RPF, One Direction (Band), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things that I started writing but haven't yet finished, and may not ever finish. Each chapter is a different story (or part thereof) and they have nothing to do with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over the Edge of Joking (Teen Wolf, part of the Like a Kick in the Head series)

**Author's Note:**

> So, it's been a while since I posted anything, largely because grad school has eaten my life. However, I've got a LOT of saved documents that contain works in various stages of completion, including next parts to series that people may or may not have been waiting for. I figured I might as well get them out there. Let me know if you have a burning desire to see any of them finished!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beacon Hills is taken over by demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the start to the third part of the [Like a Kick in the Head](http://archiveofourown.org/series/45243) series, which is one of the most popular things I've ever written. It was also a comment on this series today that prompted me to post these WIPs, because it reminded me that, inexplicably, there might still be someone out there who cares. Season 3a of Teen Wolf beat any love of the show I had out of me, and I didn't watch 3b or 4, but I do love this series, and I may be tempted to continue.

            Kali walks through the woods, the debris on the forest floor barely registering on the hardened soles of her feet.

            She’s quiet this way, barefoot, stepping lightly to avoid the crack of a twig or crunch of a pinecone. Going barefoot inside isn’t quite so effective, the click of the claws she can’t ever seem to retract fully alerting everyone who hadn’t already been looking at her in disgust for being unsanitary.

            She doesn’t find herself inside too often anymore, though, not since…

            Well. Not since.

            She doesn’t really understand why they’re still here, why they’ve been hanging around northern California for the last three months, lurking in the woods and keeping silent tabs on one Derek Hale. Kali’s always been the type for getting right to things, not comfortable with this long-range planning shit.

            Then again, she’s not entirely certain that Deucalion even _has_ a plan, a concrete reason to be here. He’s been crazy since she met him – she’s never denied that – but the madness seems to have intensified, somehow, in recent months.

            It started around when he’s recruited Ethan and Aiden. Contrary to what Deucalion tells everyone who they try to recruit, they don’t always succeed, and it had been failure after failure for the three of them, Ennis and Deuc and Kali, months without swaying another to their side, months of ruthlessly killing their own kind when things didn’t go their way. 

            Kali had sworn to herself that she’d leave any semblance of a conscience behind the night Deucalion had recruited her, but even she had been growing tired, stretched thin and brittle, spending as much time snapping at her companions as working with them.

            That the idea of snapping at Deucalion now is near unthinkable just shows how much things have changed.

            Ethan and Aiden had represented a new start for them, and Kali and Ennis had been triumphant when it had gone entirely to plan, two packs obliterated and two brand-new alphas ready to do anything for another taste of power.

            It had changed Deuc, though, and Kali will never be quite sure what happened, that night in the brilliant autumn of Upstate New York, when she and Ennis had been left at base with Ethan and Aiden, and Deucalion had gone out alone, ostensibly to check their perimeter.

            It hadn’t been the kind of change that was instantly noticeable – when Deucalion had returned, barely a half hour after leaving, just long enough for Ennis to get restless and cajole the twins into demonstrating their freaky shirtless morphing thing, he had acted just the same as he always might.

            However, their pack has always been co-dependent, even more so than an ordinary pack, so Kali is pretty sure that she has pinpointed the exact night when the change happened, because by the next time Deuc had left the pack’s presence for an extended period of time, the change was nearly complete.

            By this point, she’s come to the clearing where the rest of her pack is gathered. Even without her enhanced werewolf senses (though she barely even remembers what it was like not to have them; she was turned at fourteen), she thinks that she probably would have memorized this forest anyway, she’s spent so much time skulking around in it.

            Deucalion is looking directly at her, dark glasses shadowing his eyes despite the hour, and even though Kali knows that he must have heard her coming, because his hearing is even better than an ordinary werewolf’s, it’s still disconcerting to have a blind man look at her as though he can see her. “Kali,” he calls, “You’re late.”

            The reproach in his voice is faint, but still there, so Kali refrains from rolling her eyes as she comes to stand next to Ennis. “Sorry,” she says, even though she’s not.

            Ennis gives her a sharp look, but Aiden grins at her out of the side of his mouth.

            “Yes, well,” Deucalion says. “Time is of the essence here.”

            For the first time since she’d entered the clearing, Kali looks at something other than her fellow pack members. The first thing she notices is the strange symbol, etched into the ground in what looks like spray paint

            Near Deucalion’s feet are a few things that make her even more concerned than the symbol, though: a shallow bowl, filled to the brim with a dark red liquid, a box of matches, a silver knife.

            It reminds Kali of things that she hadn’t thought of since the night she joined Deucalion, since the night she left Julia bloody and broken on the ground. Julia’s magic had always had a reassuring feeling to it, though, and whatever Deucalion’s doing right now, it doesn’t feel the same way.

            Kali looks around, unsure. None of the other members of her pack look overly concerned, but then, she supposes, none of them had ever been especially connected with the Druids, if she remember correctly.

            None of them can identify the makings of magic at a glance.

            “Deuc, what is this?” Kali asks, trying her best to keep her voice even. “You didn’t mention anything about a ritual.”

            “I had to be sure it would work, first,” Deucalion says. He makes a show of straightening himself up, tapping his cane lightly on the ground. “Lady and Gentlemen, we’re going to summon a demon.”

            Deucalion’s pronouncement is met with blank faces. “A what?” Ennis finally asks, skeptical. Kali concurs. She can accept werewolves and Druids and even magic, but _demons_?

            Deucalion doesn’t seem to agree with her. “A demon, Ennis,” he says, as though Ennis is disappointing him with his stupidity. “Surely you know what that is?”

            “But there’s no such thing as a demon,” Ethan says.

            Kali’s positive that if Deucalion could, he’d be rolling his eyes. “I suppose you’ll see,” he says, then turns away from them and kneels down next to his little bowl of blood.

            “But why are we summoning a demon?” Ethan asks, either not realizing that Deucalion’s done with this conversation, or not caring.

            Instead of answering, Deucalion does something with the bowl and knife that Kali can’t see, shielded, as it is, by his back. Standing up again, Deucalion begins to chant, his voice low and guttural in a way that Kali has never heard it before.

            Kali’s been through a lot in her twenty-four years, a lot of pain and bloodshed and outright cruelty, so it takes a lot to scare her. This, the man she had given everything to follow so completely changed, so completely _mad_ , does the job.

            Deucalion’s chanting breaks off, and he turns around slowly, uncharacteristic smile spread across his face. As Kali watches, he reaches up and removes his sunglasses, something he does very rarely. Kali is expecting to see what she has seen before, the eyes dull and hazy with blindness, but that’s not what happens.

            Instead, Deucalion’s eyes flash a pitch black, darker than any Kali has ever seen, the color taking over the whites as well as the iris and pupil. Before any of the pack can react properly, before Kali can do anything but gasp, Deucalion speaks one final word and the world explodes.

***

            Dean swings the iron fireplace poker in his left hand, keeping his rifle trained on the rest of the room. The poker passes smoothly through the ghost, and she flickers out of existence.

            “Dig!” he calls out over his shoulder, scanning the room.

            From the other side of the room, in the middle of the torn-up floorboards, Sam pokes his head up. “I’m digging!” he yells back, annoyed.

            “Dig _faster_!” Dean orders, as one of the two twin boy ghosts manifests itself again. Dean fires off a round of rock salt right into the transparent, prepubescent chest, and wonders, not for the first time in the last few hours, how bugfuck crazy you have to be to murder four of your children and then bury them under the floorboards of your living room.

            The parents in this case had gone all ghost as well, despite dying in a fairly mundane way, but they, unlike their three sons and daughter, were actually buried in a normal fucking cemetery, and so they’ve been torched already.

            Behind Dean, Sam’s shovel makes a sound like it’s struck something hard, and Sam bites out a small cry of victory.

            “Too early to celebrate, Sammy,” Dean says, and then the eldest ghost, the son who had been seventeen when he’d died, manifests, too close and too quickly for Dean to get his rifle up. He makes to swing the poker, only to find that the _other_ twin ghost has grabbed onto his wrist and is holding it still with strength that even a dead ten year old shouldn’t possess. The oldest ghost, dark eyes staring out of his pale, yet still handsome face, steps closer and reaches out, and all Dean can think is that he doesn’t want to die in fucking _Iowa_.

            Then comes the familiar inhuman screech, and the ghost lights up like so much kindling, burning away in a matter of seconds.

            Dean turns around, backhanded compliment to Sam for getting his shit together on the tip of his tongue, only to find himself face to face with Cas.

            Now, normally, Dean would be all for this: the still-raging war in heaven means that Cas has continued to be scarce over the past few months, and any chance Dean gets to see his weird little angel is welcome, no matter how much shit he inevitably gets from Sam over it. However, he’s reluctant to celebrate too much, because Cas has his Serious Business face on, the one that had become a mainstay during the Apocalypse and that always precedes Dean getting dragged into something crazy.

            Ordinary people might open with ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘do you want to talk about it?’, but Dean, being Dean, takes one look at the confused look on Sam’s face and instead says “Goddamnit, Cas, what’ve we told you about Deus Ex Machina-ing in on our ghost hunts?”

            Sam makes a ‘that was uncalled for’ face over Cas’s shoulder, but Cas just says “Demons,” which clarifies exactly nothing.

            “Yeah…? What about them?” Dean asks, grabbing Cas’s trenchcoat-covered shoulder and dragging him towards the door, because it’s coming up on dawn and they really don’t need to deal with the police right now.

            Dean can hear Sam swearing to himself as he attempts to leverage his massive body out of the crater in the middle of the living room, and briefly entertains the idea of giving him a hand. But Cas’s eyes haven’t left Dean’s face since he arrived, even when he’s had to turn his head at an uncomfortable angle to keep Dean in sight, and Dean has a terrible feeling about this.

            “There’s been a summoning ritual,” Cas says. “A demon that hasn’t been on Earth since just after the Fall has returned.”

            “You mean it’s one of Lucifer’s head honchos?” Sam asks, so focused on Cas as he walks over that he forgets to throw Dean a bitchface for leaving him in the hole. “Like Azazel?’

            Cas is shaking his head. “Worse,” he says. “We’re talking a return to Apocalypse levels of destruction, here, closer to Samhain, or the horsemen. His name’s Belial, and he leads the Sons of Darkness.”

            “That doesn’t sound good,” Dean says.

            Cas begins to look a little frustrated. “It isn’t. There couldn’t have been a worse time for this to come, when heaven is split like this. It is going to take all of our power, and then some, to prevent the world from falling into chaos.”

            Dean’s heart sinks. The last time there’d been a knock-down, drag-out angels vs. demons war, it had pretty much been the worst time of his life, and he’s not looking forward to going back to that. Against all odds, he’s been almost…happy, lately, certainly more at peace than he’d been since the time before Hell.

            “There’s one more thing,” Cas says, and Dean really should’ve figured.

            “What?” Sam asks.

            “It happened in Beacon Hills,” Cas says, and before Dean can react, he’s reaching out and pressing a finger to Dean’s forehead.

            Wonderful.

***

            The summer following the debacle with the Kanima is, without a doubt, the best three months of Derek’s life. Even that time before the fire, nebulous and hazy now through the veil of memory, tainted by the ashes and dust of what has happened since, cannot compare.

            On the surface, it doesn’t seem like much has changed. Derek still spends most of his time hanging out with teenagers. He still can’t quite get the hang of the whole alpha thing. Scott still challenges him at every little opportunity. He still has the bad habit of blowing up at people and then sulking alone until he gets over it.

            The common denominator of the change is, of course, Stiles. Now, whenever there’s a communication failure between Derek and his betas, Stiles is there. Now, whenever Scott is being particularly obtuse, Stiles diffuses the situation with a joke. Now, whenever Derek is unfair to someone, Stiles calls him out on it.

            And the amazing thing is, Derek realizes, that this isn’t that big of a change. Even before they got together, Stiles was always the go-between, the fair one, the one who won’t let his decade-old friendship with Scott or his brand-new relationship with Derek affect what he thinks is right.

            So the change, really, is just that Stiles is around him so much more often.

            At the beginning of the summer, worn down from months of Erica’s complaining about the lack of decent bathrooms in the house or the subway car, Derek had rented an apartment in the middle of town, using the insurance payout from the fire that seems never ending, now that Derek is the only one who can use it, and that ensures that he’ll never need an actual job. This new apartment, comfortable and still private, becomes the nexus of pack life, and it isn’t unusual for four or five teenagers to be there at once – Isaac, who actually lives there, Erica and Boyd, rarely one without the other, Scott, Jackson, Lydia, Allison…and Stiles.

            Derek doesn’t like to think about how he’s fallen so hard and so fast that it was Stiles’s opinion on the apartment that mattered most of all, how his stomach had been tied up in knots as he’d ushered Stiles inside.

            How he’d felt when Stiles had turned back to him, eyes bright and hair in the process of growing out, and proclaimed it ‘sick’, then proceeded to kiss the life out of him.

            Oh, it’s not a perfect relationship, he and Stiles. Any relationship that includes Derek is, by definition, imperfect, after all, and that’s without factoring in Stiles’s incredible stubbornness and disregard for his own safety, the fact that his father’s the sheriff, or Scott’s hilarious overprotectiveness. But it _works_ , is the thing, and maybe Derek’s still kinda waiting for the axe to drop, waiting for Stiles to realize that Derek’s much older than him, kind of emotionally stunted, and the target of near-constant supernatural shenanigans.

            The fact that said shenanigans have been almost nonexistent for the past three months is perhaps the biggest surprise of them all. Ever since he’d come back to Beacon Hills, ever since Laura’s death, it’s just been one disaster after another, and the sign of an Alpha pack he’d found scrawled on his door three months ago means that it’s an uneasy peace, one that can, and will, end any day now.

            To the surprise of absolutely nobody, least of all Derek, the peace ends on the day that everyone except him returns to school.

            He’s actually had a relatively decent day – went grocery shopping and read part of a book, and he’s just getting into his stride on his daily run – when something large and decidedly werewolf-shaped crashes into him. Before he even consciously registers the threat, Derek feels himself turning, claws and teeth lengthening, and he spares a moment to be grateful that he’s far away from civilization before turning his full attention on his attacker.

            She stands a few feet from him, in a defensive position even though she’s making no further moves to attack. Derek stands up, wary, because he can sense that she’s an Alpha, and the fact that she’s female doesn’t make him feel like he has any advantage here. After all, his mother had been the Alpha of his pack, and then Laura after her, and it was a woman who torched his house and destroyed his entire life, so Derek’s not one to underestimate women.

            What does make him relax, just a little, is the look on this woman’s face. Derek has a more than passing acquaintance with desperation, with the kind of fear that eats away at a person and leaves them a twisted, bitter shell of what they used to be. The look on this woman’s face, right now, is one that he had seen in Laura’s for years, one that he likely would have seen on his own had he not been too disgusted with himself to look into a mirror.

            “I shouldn’t be doing this,” the woman says, and Derek relaxes further.

            “Doing what?” he asks, biting back on the urge to ask ‘interrupting my run?’

            “Talking to you,” she says, giving Derek a look that implies that he’s possibly the stupidest person ever to exist. “But this shit is way too crazy for me.”

            That raises Derek’s hackles. Unless another alpha has snuck into his territory without him noticing – unlikely – than this woman is part of the elusive alpha pack. He doesn’t like the idea of anything that a group of super-powered alphas can’t take on.

            “What’s going on?” he urges.

            The woman smirks, looking like she’s desperately trying to regain her composure. “What, no introductions?”

            Derek very rarely has time for games like this, but he especially doesn’t appreciate them when there’s apparently Bad Things afoot. “Derek Hale,” he snaps out, “But you already knew that.”

            “Kali,” the woman returns. “And it’s our leader, Deucalion. He’s gone crazy.” She pauses. “Well. Crazier than usual.”

            “At least you recognize that,” Derek mutters. “Why should I care, exactly?”

            “Because Deucalion’s crazy apparently comes with demons,” Kali snaps back.

            Derek can feel his eyes widening, the pure fear taking over his features. He’s never actually come into contact with any demons, but what he’s heard from Dean and Sam and Cas have made him reluctant to do so. Now, it appears, demons have been dropped right into his lap, and he desperately racks his brains for information he’d been given on how to fight them. Unbidden, his mind goes to Stiles, and he’s suddenly desperately grateful that he’s in school, no matter how often that fact serves to make him feel like a pedophile. Derek’s under no illusions that he’ll be able to take care of this by the end of the day, but the longer Stiles is confined in the relative safety of Beacon Hills High School, the better.

            “You…don’t look surprised,” Kali says. She crosses her arms over her chest and squints suspiciously at Derek, still a safe distance away.

            “Let’s just say that I was aware of the existence of demons before now,” Derek says.

            Kali snorts. “Wow, look at you, on top of things,” she says. “Any chance you know how to fight them?”

            Something in the back of Derek’s mind, the primal part of him that runs on instinct, is warning him that it’s a bad idea to trust Kali. Still, she’s one of his species, and he can’t in good conscience allow her to go on without knowing how to kill demons.

            “It’s not easy,” he says, edging just a little bit closer to her. “Your best bet is probably to learn an exorcism – any Latin one will work. In the meantime, they’re vulnerable to salt and holy water,

 

***

            When it all goes to shit, Stiles is in the locker room, a place where he’s spent far too large a portion of his life so far. He likes lacrosse, he does, but it’s not really his _thing_ , not something he’s particularly passionate about.

            And if he’s lukewarm about lacrosse, well then he’s downright unenthused about cross-country. He feels like he does quite enough running around in his everyday life, thanks very much.

            But Finstock had been adamant that all the lacrosse players should be participating in sports in the off-season, and under the assault of his best friend’s puppy dog eyes, Stiles had agreed to do it, figuring that he could probably fake half of his workouts anyway, because it’s not like Finstock has any sort of faith in him as an athlete.

            As he stands in the locker room without Scott, though, Stiles experiences a moment of disappointment in his own pushover tendencies.

            Shaking his head, Stiles pulls his shirt off over his head and begins to change into his athletic clothes, nodding in acknowledgement to some of the other members of the team as they file in, talking loudly amongst themselves. Soon enough, the locker room is almost entirely full, with the notable exception of the two people that Stiles is waiting for.

            When Finstock comes into the room and begins to go over the training program, making it entirely clear that he has even less of an idea of how to coach cross country than he does about how to coach lacrosse, Danny elbows Stiles in the side and quietly asks “Where’s Scott?”

            “Where do you think?” Stiles mutters back, somehow managing to earn a sharp look from Finstock even though he’s certain that he hadn’t spoken any more loudly than Danny.

            Danny looks around the room, noticing the absence of Isaac for the first time. It can be pretty easy to overlook him, sometimes: though he’s been loosening up over the past month or so in the presence of the pack, Isaac is still quiet in school, not to mention the fact that he’s not thought of in the same breath as any other person the way Scott and Stiles are.

            Though, Stiles reflects as the door to the locker room bursts open, allowing Scott and Isaac to spill into the room, wild haired and red faced, the clothes they wore to school mussed up, that might change soon, now that Scott and Isaac and Allison have become a thing.

            For once in his life, Stiles had been too caught up in his own romantic life over the summer to pay attention to Scott’s, so he can’t pinpoint the exact moment that Scott and Allison’s epic love had expanded to include Isaac. He found it to be a little weird at first, mostly because he’d thought that Scott would rather die than share Allison in any way, shape, or form, but once he’d had a little while to sit with it, he’d gotten over his hesitance. After all, he’s dating the world’s surliest alpha werewolf; what’s a little polyamory compared to that?

            Even though he’s completely cool with it, though, he can’t help but be a little irritated when things like this happen, when Scott is too concerned with his two significant others to pay attention to Stiles.

            His irritation melts away when Finstock rounds on the two of them, turning into a combination of secondhand embarrassment and amusement.

            It’s when Finstock is approximately halfway through one of his customary rants, as usual seeming as though he’s going to end on a completely different topic than he began on, that it happens.

            It starts with a strange rumbling noise, and a slight shaking of the ground. Though Beacon Hills isn’t in the area of California that’s prone to earthquakes, they’re not exactly unheard of, and for a split second, Stiles thinks that’s what they’re dealing with.

            And then the room darkens, and Stiles looks out the window to see an enormous black cloud, rolling over the ground towards the school like videos he’s seen of volcanic eruptions.

            Around him, the other members of the team are looking around, confused, but Stiles knows exactly what’s happening. His hand goes to his throat, where he finds, to his relief, that the anti-possession charm he’s taken to wearing is in place. He’s about to turn to Scott and Isaac, to make sure that they’re wearing theirs as well, but he doesn’t have time; he’s distracted by the smoke-like substance creeping through the door and splitting off, entering his friends and classmates and coach through the mouth. Even Scott and Isaac get this treatment, convulsing and falling to the floor as the demons force their way into their bodies, and Stiles is rooted to the floor, knowing that he should get the hell out before the demons rip him limb from limb but unable to make his feet move.

            Some of the smoke makes for Stiles, but stops a few inches away from his mouth and turns away, presumably going in search of another host.

            Of the bodies littering the floor, it is Isaac’s that is the first to recover, and it rises gracefully to its feet, the demon inside moving in a much more graceful and fluid manner than Isaac usually does.

            He turns to Stiles, and looks him up and down. “Anti-possession charm?” he asks, and even his voice sounds different from Isaac’s, sneering and unpleasant. “Clever. But it certainly won’t stop us from killing you.” At the word ‘killing’, the demon’s eyes flash to a terrifying black and a bloodthirsty smile comes over his face.

            That, more than anything else, is what get Stiles’s ass in gear. Thinking quickly,


	2. A Shot in the Dark, Aimed Right at My Throat (Teen Wolf, part of the Shake it Out series)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is the Kanima's master, Scott has relationship problems, Melissa and the Sheriff are adorable, and Derek secretly loves poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the work I did on the sequel to the first thing I ever wrote in the Teen Wolf fandom, [I'm Ready to Suffer, and I'm Ready to Hope](http://archiveofourown.org/works/608549) and I have no earthly idea what's going on in it, or where I was going. I am pretty damn proud of the sex scene, though.

            Things have been… weird between Stiles and his dad since the whole werewolf thing came out.

            The thing is, though, that things have been off between the two of them for months – ever since Stiles listened to a police broadcast and felt the need to drag his best friend through the woods in search of a dead body.

            In comparison to how strained things have been, how the lines on the Sheriff’s face had gotten deeper and deeper with each lie Stiles had told, how he had ceased to look at his son with anything but mistrust and disappointment – in comparison to that, the oddness that comes with the Sheriff being newly privy to the existence of the supernatural is easily managed.

            Stiles is doing what he’s been doing for the last week – lying in his bed, laptop perched low on his stomach to avoid his fractured rib, lazily playing WoW. He’s on the good drugs, which are preventing him from getting too upset when his raids go wrong, so it’s a lot more fun than it had been before.

            Plus, it’s a good distraction – not only from the pain, but also from the thoughts that race through his head at warp speed.

            Sure, the constellations of bruises on his body are slowly fading. By all accounts, all of the werewolves in his life are, as usual, walking around like nothing had happened to them. His father, Scott’s mother, and Dr. Deaton are all fine as well, if a bit banged up. Gerard’s dead.

            But Peter’s still missing, and they have no idea what his plans are. Jackson is still as lizardy as ever, only now Stiles can apparently tell him what to do.

            Lydia’s still in love with Jackson, and will never love Stiles the way he loves her.

            Stiles is jerked from his thoughts by a smart rap on his door. “Yeah?” he calls.

            His dad pokes his head around the door. “I’m going into work. You feeling alright?”

            Stiles gives him a thumbs up, because it doesn’t require much motion. “Absolutely fine. Peachy.”

            The sheriff levels him with a skeptical look, but doesn’t argue. He’d taken the first few days after the incident off, but Beacon Hills has never had an extensive police force, and they’ve been stretched even thinner lately, so he can’t miss any more work. “You ready to go back to school tomorrow?” he asks instead.

            Stiles rolls his eyes, because that’s really a stupid question. “Physically? Yeah. Mentally? Never.”

            Instead of responding with force or anger, like another parent might, the sheriff gives a wry smile. “I know how that feels. Make sure you set your alarm, I’m not sure I’ll be home by the time you leave.”

            Stiles nods, going back to his game.

            His father pauses in the doorway. “Stiles?”

            Stiles looks up again. His father’s smile is awkward, but sincere. “I love you,” he says.

            Stiles smiles back. “Love you too, Dad,” he says. “Make sure you call me if there are any problems of the wolfy variety, ok?”

            The sheriff snorts. “Fat chance. Something goes wrong, I’m calling Scott. _You_ need to rest.”

            “I’ve been doing nothing _but_ resting!” Stiles protests, but the sheriff has already walked away.

            Stiles falls back to the bed, giving a wince when the movement jars his rib. He hates this, hates feeling weak and pathetic and worthless.

            The only person besides his dad who’s been in to see him is Scott, who had been full of talk (and complaints) about how Derek had been on everyone’s ass since Gerard’s death, apparently trying to band together in the face of the threat that Peter posed. Stiles had listened to him, of course, and made sympathetic noises, but, in truth, he agrees with Derek’s plan. Whether Scott likes it or not, he’s part of Derek’s pack and fighting it will only make them all weaker.

            What had bothered Stiles about the whole thing, and still bothers him now, is that no one in Derek’s pack had even attempted to make contact with him about this whole thing. No surprise window invasions, no lurking around on the street, hell, not even a _text_. It sends a message loud and clear: Derek, or his betas, or _someone_ , don’t consider Stiles part of their pack.

            And, frankly, that’s a giant load of bullshit.

            Stiles had done his research. He knows that lycanthropy isn’t necessary to be a member of a werewolf pack. Most packs, on the contrary, include several human members. Given this knowledge, and the fact that Stiles has literally saved every single member of the pack’s ass more than once, Stiles thinks he’s pretty much a member by default at this point.

            As soon as he can move without experiencing massive amounts of pain, he’s planning on giving Derek a piece of his mind about the matter. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s going to _say_ , but he’s sure it’s going to be good.

            Stiles heaves a sigh and focuses back on his computer. Yeah, right. He’ll probably just end up babbling in Derek’s general direction until Derek kills or otherwise maims him out of sheer annoyance.

            Stiles’s character kills another, and he mutters “Die, bitch,”

            From his left, a voice says “Violence isn’t the answer, Stiles.”

            “Jesus, _fuck_ ,” Stiles yelps, and he flails so much that his laptop slams shut and slides off his bed. He has to stop moving after only a few seconds, though, because that level of spastic is painful in his current condition.

            When Stiles meets Derek’s eyes, he looks thoroughly unimpressed. Granted, unimpressed seems to be his default expression, so Stiles isn’t really surprised. “Can you not?” he asks weakly, knowing that this isn’t likely to be the one time Derek listens to him.

            Predictably, Derek doesn’t answer Stiles’s rhetorical non-question, choosing instead to ask “Are you feeling better?”

            Stiles gives him a stink-eye. Not only is he thoroughly sick of being asked that question, but the concern about him seems out-of-character for Derek. Stiles wonders for a moment if Derek’s been enchanted or something, but he quickly shakes the thought off.

            Even _his_ life couldn’t possibly be that bizarre and unlucky.

            “That depends on what you want me to do,” Stiles finally answers, after what feels like an eternity of suspicious looks.

            Derek’s frown deepens. “I don’t want you to do anything.” He looks like Stiles has insulted him, somehow, even though everything in their prior acquaintance suggests that Derek usually wants something when he invades Stiles’s property.

            “Why are you here, then?” Stiles asks.

            Derek’s silent for a moment. “There’s a pack meeting tomorrow, after school’s out,” he says, finally. “I asked Scott to tell you, but I figured that he would forget.”

            Stiles is surprised, but attempts to hide it behind an (admittedly feeble) veneer of calm. “You couldn’t have just texted me?” he asks. “Scott told me you have a cell phone, dude, this whole breaking and entering thing is no longer necessary.”

            “I didn’t have your number,” Derek says.

            “You could’ve asked Scott for it.”

            Derek shifts uncomfortably, and Stiles takes pity on him, figuring that his lack of social skills and strained relationship with Scott had prevented him from doing things like a normal person. He holds out a hand, expectantly.

            Derek just stares at it.

            Stiles wiggles his fingers a little. “Give it here.” At Derek’s confused look, he elaborates with a roll of his eyes. “Your _phone_ , asshole.”

            The device that Derek produces from his pocket is outdated by at least six years. Stiles turns it over when Derek places it in his outstretched hand, marveling at it. “Dude, we need to take you shopping for a new cell phone,” Stiles says as he keys his number in, saving it under “Batman”.

            “What’s wrong with this one?” Derek asks, taking it back. His eyebrows draw into a frown when he sees what Stiles has put in, but he seems more resigned than angry, so Stiles doesn’t worry about it.

            “It’s a _flip phone_ ,” Stiles says. “It doesn’t even have a _keyboard_.”

            “I don’t need a keyboard,” Derek argues. “It’s a phone, and it works. That’s all that matters.”

            “How long does it take you to send a text?”

            Derek glares. “Pack meeting. After school tomorrow. Be there.”

            Stiles raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Is it going to be in your deathtrap of a house, or your deathtrap of an abandoned subway car?”

            “It’s at the house,” Derek answers, already halfway out of the window. “Bring your copy of the Bestiary.” With that, he drops out of sight.

            Stiles waits a few minutes for Derek to get a reasonable distance away before he flops back onto his pillows, a smile gracing his face.

            It might be only for his research skills, or only due to the fact that he’s a large part of this new threat they’re facing, but he’s invited to the pack meeting. Which means he’s pack.

            Looks like he won’t have to give anyone a piece of his mind after all.

***

            Scott’s confused.

            He’s not confused in the way he’s usually confused, about his schoolwork or the latest supernatural crisis. No, this time, he’s confused about his own feelings.

            This is unusual, because Scott’s always been pretty in touch with his emotions. His mom calls him ‘emotionally intuitive’, which Scott prefers to what Stiles and Jackson call him (‘impulsive’ and ‘pussy’, respectively).

            Ever since that first day, when he’d heard Allison taking on the phone, Scott has known that she was it for him. The One, capital T, capital O.

            Now, though, he’s not sure.

            Stiles has filled him in on the situation, how Allison had stopped trying to attack him as soon as she’d learned the truth, but he can’t quite get the picture of her, eyes dark and hooded and a cruel smile playing around her lips, bowstring pulled taut, out of his head.

            She’d almost killed Boyd, been ready to hand Erica and the rest of the pack over to Gerard without the slightest hesitation. After all she’d been through with Scott, the full moons, the research – she’d still turned on him at the slightest provocation.

            And yeah, Scott _gets_ that she was grieving – while he’s never lost a parent in the same way she has, his father leaving had left him in a similar state – but it’s possible for someone to grieve without going full-on psycho.

            Then, there’s the question of Isaac.

            It had taken Scott a little while to recognize Isaac’s crush on him, mistaking it for some kind of misplaced hero worship, the newer wolf looking up to the older one.

            He thinks he started to see it for what it is during that last lacrosse game, when Isaac had agreed to hurt himself for the sake of Scott’s plan.

            It’s not the fact that Isaac is a dude that bothers Scott. Gay people have been a fact of his life for as long as he can remember. Danny’s the most visible, but there are several other people in his school, guys and girls, who are known to enjoy a little same-sex action. Even Stiles has admitted to Scott that he’s sometimes attracted to guys, though Scott’s pretty sure he’s the only person that knows that.

            And Scott has absolutely zero problem with it. He walks around in the locker room without a shirt on, not caring if Danny wants to check him out (he’d say the same thing about Stiles, but that would feel a bit like his brother checking him out). Even dancing with Danny at the formal, he hadn’t felt an ounce of discomfort knowing about Danny’s sexuality.

            But, as cool as he’s always been with it, Scott’s never felt any inclination towards dudes himself. He’d gone through his share of crushes before Allison, of course, but they’d all been girls. Never once had he looked at another guy and considered kissing him, or fucking him, or having any other sort of romantic relationship with him.

            So really, this should all be cut-and-dry. Scott just needs to have one awkward conversation with Isaac, and then they can both move on, Scott going back to Allison and Isaac finding someone new to crush on.

            The thing is, though, that Scott’s not entirely sure he _wants_ Isaac to move on. It feels good, Isaac’s crush on him, and not just in the way that anyone crushing on him would feel good. It makes his heart rate pick up and a smile tug at the corner of his lips, a fluttery feeling in his stomach.

            The whole situation boils down to a few things: one, Scott is still in love with Allison. He thinks part of him will always be in love with Allison, no matter what. Two, Scott’s not sure any more if he and Allison will work out, isn’t sure that his love is enough to outweigh the obstacles facing him. And three, Scott thinks that, given time, he could fall in love with Isaac.

            It’s all so complicated, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Scott can’t afford to be distracted, not when there are still multiple threats lurking just out of sight, waiting to swoop in and destroy Scott and all that he holds dear.

            This is why Scott decides, the Sunday before Stiles is due to come back to school, that he needs to be proactive in dealing with this situation. He can sit alone in his room and angst about it, but that won’t actually help the situation, and will just serve to get him worked up.

            He wants to talk to Stiles about it, because as much as Stiles complains about having to listen to Scott talk about his love life, he always gives solid advice. There are a few reasons why he can’t, though. For one thing, he’s not sure he’s ready to admit his feelings about Isaac to anyone else, not when he’s barely managed to admit them to himself. For another, he has a sneaking suspicion that Stiles won’t be of much help with this particular dilemma, because he’s even worse than Scott at the whole being fixated on one person thing, his sexual orientation notwithstanding. Lastly, Stiles has got a lot on his plate right now, what with his injuries, his father, and the fact that he now controls the deadly shifted form of the boy who’s tormented him since elementary school. A few months ago, Scott wouldn’t have even considered Stiles’s feelings before dumping his own issues on him, not because he didn’t care, but because he simply didn’t think about those things. If there’s one positive thing all this werewolf nonsense has brought to his life, though (besides the whole healing thing and the lacrosse skills) it’s a newfound sense of maturity.

            So, Scott decides he’s going to handle this like an adult, and actually talk to the two people in question.

            He goes to Isaac first, because newfound maturity and adulthood are all well and good, but he’s not ready to face Allison yet.

            When Isaac had gotten hurt in that warehouse, thrown against the wall by the Kanima, Scott hadn’t experienced any panic. He’d been worried, sure, but Isaac is a werewolf, and he’s just as resilient as Scott himself.

            However, Isaac hadn’t woken up right away. In fact, it had taken days for him to wake up, days of him lying unconscious in Deaton’s office, surrounded by the other members of the pack.

            Deaton, when he’d gotten out of the hospital himself, had explained that healing head wounds took time, and had assured the pack that Isaac would be fine, once he woke up.

            That hadn’t reassured them, though. As far as Scott knows, Erica and Boyd hadn’t left Isaac’s side the entire time he was unconscious. Derek and Scott had, but only because they’d had other commitments to take care of – Scott had to make sure that his mother, Stiles, and the sheriff were all alright, while Derek had to go hunt for Peter and commune with nature, or whatever. Even when Scott hadn’t been with Isaac, though, the worry had always been in the back of his mind, that little voice asking what would happen if Isaac didn’t wake up.

            From the increasingly drawn look on his face, the way he spoke even less than usual and stared off into the distance more often, Derek had wondered the same thing.

            About three days ago, though, Isaac had woken up, and, true to Deaton’s predictions, he had been absolutely fine, if ravenously hungry. Scott hadn’t been there when he’d woken up, a fact that he’s still kicking himself for, and he hasn’t been to see Isaac since.

            Scott snaps himself out of his contemplation of Isaac’s illness when he pulls up to the Hale house. Officially, Isaac’s been staying with a foster family, an older couple whose own children have grown up and left them, since his father’s death. Unofficially, of course, he’s been staying with Derek, because his foster parents don’t seem to care much about him, and they certainly don’t understand him.

            Scott gets out of his mom’s car and sees the familiar hulking shape of Derek lingering in the doorway of the burnt-out house. He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything yet, preferring to speak with Derek face-to-face.

            When he gets to the door, Derek looks at him for a long moment without speaking, his face sour.

            “I’m here to see Isaac,” Scott says, realizing that Derek’s upset about his absence. It takes a lot of self-control for him to resist the urge to call Derek ‘mom’.

            “About time,” Derek says, and for a moment Scott’s afraid that Derek won’t let him up, at least not without a fight.

            Derek steps back, though, and Scott goes around him, heading for the dilapidated stairs.

            Though Derek’s protectiveness over Isaac can be irritating, Scott’s actually glad that Isaac has someone who cares about what happens to him. Scott can’t imagine going through life without a supportive parent – though his father left them when Scott was young, his mom has always been a rock, working as hard as she possibly can to keep a roof over their heads, while still managing to make it to a majority of his lacrosse games and other school functions. He can’t even imagine what it must have been like for Isaac, to lose his brother and the caring of his father in one fell swoop like that.

            At the top of the stairs, Scott turns left and walks down the hallway to the room that Isaac has claimed for himself. Luckily for those who still inhabit the Hale house, the fire started on the first floor, so most of the rooms upstairs are relatively unharmed. Sure, they still have the smell of smoke and death that permeates the whole property, but at least they aren’t visibly wrecked. He knocks on the door, and only has to wait a few seconds before he’s face-to-face with Isaac, who gives him a smile.

            “Scott, hey,” he says, and all of Scott’s resolve instantly leaves him.

            “Hey, Isaac,” he says, walking into the room. “How’re you feeling?”

            He doesn’t know whether to sit down or not, doesn’t know if he and Isaac are close enough to warrant that sort of thing. Despite the obvious crush, Isaac is still not a known entity to Scott, still unstable from the loss of his father and concurrent transformation into a werewolf.

            Scott suddenly realizes just how _stupid_ it was to come over here. He’s not even sure how he feels about anything, thoughts tangled into a knot in his brain, and it would be unfair to get Isaac’s hopes up should it turn out that he’s not, in fact, interested in taking it further.

            Hell, he doesn’t even know for a fact that Isaac has feelings for him. It’s entirely possible that his first instinct was correct, and that Isaac really only looks up to him, like a brother.

            “I’m fine,” Isaac says with a shrug. “Heard I gave you all a scare, but I didn’t really feel much.

            Scott barely registers the answer, distracted, and Isaac notices.

            Luckily he doesn’t seem to be interested in grilling Scott, the way Stiles or Allison would be. Instead, he suggests that they play Halo for a little while, and Scott jumps at the chance, trying to mask his surprise at the fact that the second story of the Hale house does, in fact, have electricity.

            It’s a near miss, though, and something that’s probably not going to happen again.

            Scott really needs to get his shit together.

***

            Melissa is insanely, insanely grateful that she has someone to talk about this werewolf business with.

            Even though she’d only learned the truth herself a week before the Sheriff, she feels like she’s known for ages, like she’s spent the majority of her life worrying about Scott, wondering if her son was a different person as a result.

            After the drama with Gerard Argent, she’s fairly certain that he isn’t. Still, she can’t exactly tell her friends at work about the new developments in her life, so she and the Sheriff have taken to meeting, a few times a week, at the local Starbucks to check in with each other.

            Melissa walks through the door, allowing the rich scent of coffee to fill her nose. She’d prefer a smaller, local coffee shop – she isn’t ashamed to admit that she’s a bit of a coffee snob, it comes with drinking the swill the hospital tries to pass of as coffee for ten straight years – but most of those have closed down over the past few years, and the closest would be a fifteen minute drive away.

            A quick look around the shop tells Melissa that the Sheriff isn’t here yet, and she goes up to the counter to order a medium (she refuses to say ‘Grande’) black from the teenage barista, a girl who she thinks is a year above Scott.

            When she’s gotten her coffee, she sinks down into one of the open armchairs with a sigh of relief. Things have undoubtedly calmed down since Gerard’s death, but the work of a nurse is never really done, and she’s been doing twelve-hour shifts for the last three days. Her feet are killing her, so she puts them up on the ottoman in front of her, and that’s how the Sheriff finds her, relaxed and sipping at her coffee, a few minutes later.

            “Don’t get up on my account,” the Sheriff protests when Melissa tries to stand to greet him. She doesn’t put up a fight, just sinks back down and follows him with her eyes as he goes to order his own coffee.

            If Melissa’s being honest with herself, she knows what this is building up to. If she’s being _really_ honest with herself, she’s known it was coming for years now.

            It’s never been the right time, though, not really, and a large part of that is due to the ghost of the Sheriff’s wife.

            Melissa gets it, she does, because Claudia Stilinski had been like a sister to her, had been the one to pick up the pieces when her ex had left she and Scott high and dry, had been the one to watch Scott while Melissa pulled doubles just to keep food on the table, adjusting to living on a single salary with only the minimal amount of child support to rely on each month.

            Claudia’s death had been brutal, long and drawn out and _painful_ , leaving a devastated husband and ten-year-old child behind, and though Melissa hadn’t known the Sheriff too well when Claudia was alive, she knows that he hasn’t been the same man since her death.

            Now that it’s been six years though, and now that Stiles is growing into an (overly) independent young adult, Melissa thinks that the Sheriff is probably ready to start dating again.

            Specifically, she thinks the Sheriff is ready to start dating _her_ , based on the uncharacteristically awkward way he sometimes behaves around her, like he’s trying to remember how he and Claudia got started, all those years ago.

            Melissa likes to think that Claudia would want her husband to move on, would want the Sheriff ( _John_ , she should really start calling him by his first name if this is going to go anywhere) to find love again, and that she would approve of Melissa.

            As for Melissa’s ex? Well, fuck him. She’s been ready to date for a lot longer than John has, as evidenced by her ill-conceived fling with Peter Hale.

            Melissa is pulled out of her own head when John returns, the furtive look on his face telling her that he’s ordered one of those sugary concoctions that she doesn’t understand and that Stiles strictly forbids him from drinking.

            Melissa’s not his keeper, though, and she tends to think Stiles goes a little overboard on these things as an attempt to keep his surviving parent, so she just smiles at John until he relaxes enough to take a sip of his drink.

            “How’s Stiles?” she asks, genuinely concerned for him.

            “As well as he can be, considering the circumstances,” John says. “I was going to make him go back to school tomorrow, but I’m not entirely certain anymore.”

            “He’ll be fine,” Melissa says gently. “I’ve seen the x-ray, and his break’s not serious – it’ll heal all on its own, even if he’s up and walking around.”

            John gives a tired little smile. “It sure is nice to have a nurse around at times like this. How about Scott?”

            “Walking around like he was never shot,” Melissa says. “I really hope I don’t have to get used to seeing that.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” John says seriously, raising his coffee as though he’s making a toast. Melissa laughs and copies his motion, the both of them taking large swigs out of their cups afterwards.

            It’s easy with John, relaxed and reassuring, and even if Melissa isn’t exactly certain what they are or where they’re going, she still enjoys every bit of time they spend together.

***

            By the time Stiles drags himself to the pack meeting after school, he’s wishing he had just stayed in bed. Y’know, more than he _usually_ wishes he’d stayed in bed instead of going to school.

            Stiles is used to being invisible. For the first sixteen years of his life, he’d faded into the background, only catching other peoples’ notice when he put his foot in his mouth too hard, or when Scott had an asthma attack, or when someone had remembered that his father was the sheriff.

            And he’d hated it, back then, wanted more than anything for someone (Lydia) to notice him, to treat him like a human being with his own thoughts and feelings.

            Now, though, he thinks he’d give just about anything to go back to that anonymity.

            Everyone and their mother, it seems, has heard about his kidnapping (understandable, really, since it happened in pretty much the most public place possible), and he’s therefore the recipient of pitying looks and offers of help all day long. Even Finstock tones it down a little, giving Stiles a reprieve from serving as his verbal punching bag, though Harris is just as unpleasant as ever.

            To top it all off, Stiles’s newly expanded circle of friends and acquaintances swarm around him all day. He expects it from Scott, of course, especially now that he and Allison are broken up, but it seems that Allison herself has taken their conversation in Gerard’s torture-basement to mean that they are now best friends.

            He likes Allison, he _does_ , and he appreciates that she’s only trying to make things right, but it’s awkward as fuck when he keeps having to slip away from Scott in order to talk to her.

            To make things worse, Erica and Boyd have decided that they’re going to be his new personal bodyguards, appearing out of nowhere every time Allison shows up with her puppy dog eyes and apologies. Stiles thinks that, since they witnessed what happened in the basement as well (and damn if he isn’t embarrassed by that as well – he’d completely forgotten that Boyd and Erica were present and conscious when he was spilling his feelings about his dead mother everywhere, and judging from the uncertain look in Erica’s eyes when she sees him, they’d heard every word) they should know that Allison’s no longer a threat, but he supposes that being shot by a fuckload of arrows might make a person less likely to trust another.

            The cherry on top of the shit sundae that is his Monday, though, is Lydia.

            Again, there was a time when he’d have given anything, _anything_ , for a scrap of Lydia’s attention. Now, though, it’s just annoying, partially because every other word out of her mouth is ‘Jackson’.

            Stiles knows that he, somehow, has control of Jackson’s lizard form now, but it’s not as though he has any clue how to control it, let alone how to convert Jackson to something resembling human.

            No matter how many times he tries to tell Lydia this, though, she still sticks to his side like superglue, alternating between outright grilling him on Jackson and chattering idly about everyday things, as though she thinks she’ll lull him into a false sense of security and get him to spill something. It would be a good tactic, if Stiles didn’t see right through it, and if he had actually known anything to spill.

            There are three people, though, who seem to be treating Stiles normally. Sure, Scott had seemed a little extra concerned at the beginning of the school day, treating Stiles like he was dying instead of nursing a broken rib, but Stiles has always known how to deal with Scott, and a few harsh words and a playful punch to the shoulder had put Scott right back to normal.

            Isaac, who had never talked to Stiles much anyway, gives him a little nod when he sees him, but otherwise doesn’t come close. Scott seems to act a little weird around Isaac, tensing up and giving that stupid little nervous laugh he has every time they’re within ten feet of each other, but, because that weirdness isn’t actually centering itself around Stiles, he chooses not to care, at least not today.

            The last person who treats him normally is Jackson, and if someone had told Stiles a week ago that he’d ever be grateful to Jackson Whittemore for anything, he’d have laughed in their face.

            Anyway, by the time he and Scott roll up to the Hale house in the Jeep, Stiles feels like death warmed over, both physically and mentally. He needs this meeting, though, needs, if not a solution to his problems, then at least a concrete plan of how to deal with them. Despite Derek’s many, many failings as Alpha in the past, Stiles knows his heart is in the right place, knows that he’ll try as hard as he can to make things right.

            They meet in the living room, which is full of furniture that Stiles has never seen before, and that may have been purchased expressly for this meeting. They’ve never done this before, never gotten everyone involved in this little werewolf drama all in one room together, and Stiles is optimistic, feels like it’s a step in the right direction in minimizing animosity between everyone.

            Derek’s betas are already there, likely having run home from school and not even looking like it, the bastards. Erica and Boyd are sitting next to each other on the couch. Stiles doesn’t think he’s seen one of them without the other since Gerard snatched them, and, though he can’t tell if it’s some sort of burgeoning romantic connection or just a deep friendship born of necessity, he hopes it’ll be good for them.

            Isaac is lounging in one of the armchairs, trying his best to look nonchalant, though Stiles can see his eyes darting nervously around the room. There’s no sign of Derek, though Stiles is positive that he’s lurking around in the shadows somewhere.

            Scott and Stiles greet the others, and then move to sit down. It feels oddly like a formal arrangement, instead of a bunch of teenagers hanging out, and even the normally irreverent Erica is subdued, saying hello and then falling into silence.

            Just as Scott begins to fall into conversation with Isaac, leaning towards Isaac’s armchair from his own spot at the very edge of the couch, Allison walks inside, and the situation gets, almost impossibly, even more awkward.

            Stiles isn’t sitting next to Scott, having claimed the other armchair with the justification that he’s still injured, but he doesn’t need to be close to see the way Scott tenses up, looking like he wants to just bolt out of the room.

            Allison stands in the middle of the room, a hesitant smile on her face. She looks totally normal again, no trace of the leather and Lycra she’d favored when under Gerard’s control, but Stiles can tell that Erica, Boyd, and Isaac aren’t buying it.

            Stiles makes the executive decision that he’s not gonna let this meeting crash and burn before it even starts. “Hey Allison,” he says, forcing his voice to sound light and normal. “I gotta say, this meeting thing could’ve been planned better. There’s not even any pizza.”

            Stiles’s false cheeriness isn’t working, he can tell, but luckily enough, Derek comes in to save the day, all intense and brood-y. “If you want pizza, order it yourself,” he fires at Stiles.

            “Um, hello,” Stiles says, gesturing to himself as best as he can without actually moving too much. “I was caught in the crossfire of your ridiculous turf war and injured, the least you can do is get me some food.”

            “Do you want me to feed you as well?” Derek asks drily, his eyebrows climbing steadily towards his hairline.

            And that…that is the kind of picture that Stiles does not need right now. Because Derek’s a little growly and scowly and wears way too much leather, sure, but he’s also hot like burning and the idea of him _feeding_ Stiles, the intense concentration that would be on his face as he did so, the way his big, calloused fingers might catch a little at Stiles’s lower lip as he pulls his hand away…

            Well. Let’s just say Stiles was not aware that he had this kink until today.

            Naturally, because Stiles is Stiles, he completely fails to play the situation off, going beet red and mumbling some half-hearted reply that doesn’t even make sense.

            Even though Derek looks at him like he’s crazy, though, it’s kind of a good thing, because it’s as though Stiles is taking up all of the awkward in the room, allowing Allison to settle on the loveseat without anyone saying anything to her. Scott relaxes, and Erica is comfortable enough to openly laugh at Stiles’s face.

            It’s promising, and Stiles begins to feel like they may actually pull this off, like they may be able to band into some semblance of a pack.

            Of course, that’s before Lydia and Jackson walk in, and the tension ratchets right back up to 11.

            Clearly, the whole Beauty and the Beast treatment, even if it hadn’t worked, has done them well. They come in looking like the power couple that they haven’t been for months, holding hands and wearing matching superior expressions.

            Stiles’s gut drops, but he chooses to ignore it. He doesn’t have time for emotional rollercoasters, merry-go-rounds, bumper cars, ferris wheels, or any other theme park rides right now.

            “Now that everyone’s here,” Derek begins, before Lydia and Jackson have even had a chance to sit down, though they don’t have much of a choice of where, with bodies already taking up every piece of furniture. “We have a few things to talk about.”

            Stiles gets the impression that Derek has prepared for this, maybe even taken notes or rehearsed, and he finds that idea unexpectedly endearing. No matter what else happens, Derek’s trying, trying to atone for his mistakes and take charge of a position that he never expected or wanted, and that is deserving of respect.

            “First of all,” Derek continues, looking around and making eye contact with each pack member in turn. “We have to learn to stick together. No more of this infighting bullshit, or these divided packs. Any dissent can be used against us.”

            “So what, your word is law, then?” Scott chimes in, rebellious. “You don’t exactly have the best track record.”

            Derek looks like he’s going to snap back, for a moment, and then noticeably reins himself in. “No, my word is not law,” he concedes. “But it _does_ have more weight than the rest of yours. Not -” he has to raise his voice a bit to be heard over Scott’s noise of protest, which Allison echoes. “Not because I’m the Alpha, but because I have experience with being a werewolf that no one else does.”

            Not even Scott can argue with that, and he settles back into the couch, ready to hear Derek out.

            “Our second priority is discovering more about the threats to the town – namely, Peter and Jackson,” Derek says, ignoring Jackson’s scoff. “I don’t think either of these are too important right now, unless Stiles has murderous tendencies that he hasn’t shown until now.”

            “Unless the Kanima can kill cancer or the criminal impulse, I think I’m good,” Stiles says. Allison shoots him soulful eyes at the reference to his mother’s death, but he merely looks away. As far as he’s concerned, they’re going back to pretending that didn’t happen.

            “Peter’s a little more unpredictable, especially since we don’t know what he’s up to, but there’s no point in worrying about something we have no control over,” Derek says. “The best thing we can do is integrate the pack a little better, increase our defenses.”

            “Question,” Lydia says, the first time she had deigned to speak or even look interested in the proceedings. “How do we know Peter’s ‘up to’ anything?” her voice is full of scorn, and Stiles is a little surprised – he had figured that Lydia would be more pissed at Peter than anyone, after he had gotten her hopes up like he had, told her that she could save Jackson from being the Kanima and then disappeared without a trace.

            “Why _else_ would he just take off?” Erica counters with a sneer.

            “ _Maybe_ he’s trying to help, trying to figure out what went wrong,” Lydia says. “Just because none of _you_ seem to really care what happens to Jackson doesn’t mean that _he_ doesn’t care.”

            And there it is, the accusation that Stiles has been waiting for. Because, truth be told, he _doesn’t_ really care what happens to Jackson, and not just because Lydia wants him. Jackson had brought this upon himself by being such an unpardonable douche that he literally changed the nature of a werewolf bite, and as long as he’s not actively murdering innocent people, it doesn’t seem to matter much.

            Maybe he should keep his mouth shut on this topic, but he just can’t seem to. “Why does it matter if Jackson’s a freaky werelizard as long as I’m not telling him to kill anyone?” he asks.

            “It matters, _Stiles_ ,” Lydia says, voice low and dangerous. “Because he doesn’t _want_ to be a Kanima. Besides, who’s to say we can trust you to keep your word?”

            And doesn’t that hurt like a bitch, more than the pain in his ribs by far, the fact that Lydia doesn’t trust him.

            “Enough,” Derek orders. “Lydia, it seems to me like you know a little more about Peter and his purpose than you’re letting on.” He folds his arms and gives her the full force of his glower. “After all, you’re the one who brought him back to life. If there’s anyone in this room that we can’t trust, it’s you.”

            There’s an almost imperceptible shift in the room at Derek’s words, and Stiles knows, without looking, that every other person in the room is now glaring at Lydia and Jackson. It doesn’t erase the sting of Lydia’s disdain, not by a long shot, but it does make him feel better, that all these people, no matter what problems he’s had with them in the past, have his back.

            Lydia is nothing if not intelligent – a tactical genius, if Stiles is being generous – and she knows when to back down. She tosses a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I have no idea how he brought me back – he was manipulating me the whole time,” she says. “And I may not know much about werewolves, but I think you’d be able to tell if I’d been having secret meetings with him, or whatever.”

            “I would,” Derek says, face sour. “Anyway, this is the exact opposite of the point of this meeting. Lydia, we will do our best to help Jackson, but he is not our priority right now.”

            Lydia huffs, but goes to sit down on the floor, dragging Jackson with her by the hand.

            As they settle down, close to Stiles’s armchair, Stiles can see Lydia give Jackson’s hand a little squeeze, can see the way Jackson’s shoulders are up in a defensive posture. She’s being a bit of a bitch, true – Stiles’s longstanding crush on her has never kept him from admitting that – but she has a reason, and Stiles can’t begrudge her it.

            The rest of the meeting goes off as smoothly as it possibly can, given the amount of conflict they’ve had in the past. Stiles has a difficult time concentrating, the painkillers that he had taken that morning to ease the ache in his ribs wearing off, but he does his best, listens dutifully as Derek takes charge and works with the others on what they should do. Stiles even manages a few snarky comments, though contributing anything of worth is beyond him right now. Even Jackson opens up a little, managing to speak the first words he had since walking in the room, though Stiles is pleased to note that Jackson doesn’t exactly bring the genius either.

            After about an hour of this, Derek meets Stiles’s eyes and abruptly says “That’s it for today. Everyone go home, get some rest, and get started on what I’ve assigned you. We’ll meet again later in the week.

            Stiles, who doesn’t think he’s managed to say anything in the last fifteen minutes, drifting off on the pain, blinks as he’s brought back into the present, but doesn’t argue. Everyone gets up, the way they start talking amongst themselves reminding Stiles of what happens when the bell signaling the end of a class rings. Stiles turns to Scott, thinking he’ll maybe invite him over for a bit, but notices that Scott is staring at Allison, so intensely that Stiles is surprised that she hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

            Getting up out of the chair with a little difficulty, Stiles walks over to Scott and claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, startling him out of his creepy staring (maybe it’s not such a good idea for Scott and Derek to get along, after all). “Gonna go talk to her, then?” Stiles asks, pitching his voice low. The werewolves in the room will still be able to hear him – and they do, if the way Isaac’s back stiffens across the room is any indication – but Allison won’t, and that’s all that matters.

            Scott nods. “I think it’s now or never, dude. Gotta stop chickening out.”

            Stiles claps him on the shoulder again, using it as an excuse to not-so-subtly lean most of his weight on Scott, who takes it without swaying or complaint. “Everything will be fine,” Stiles says, trying his best to fake confidence in his words.

            Scott looks at him over his shoulder, mouth crooking in a slight smile. “No it won’t,” he says. “But at least I’ll know for sure.”

            Stiles wants to stay, wants to give Scott the moral support he always has, because, as much as Scott and Allison had bothered him at times, he wants nothing more than for his best friend to be happy. He knows, though, that Scott has to do this on his own, and besides, Derek chooses that exact moment to call Stiles’s name across the room.

            Grimacing a little, Stiles drags himself back into an upright position. “You can do this,” he assures Scott. “And don’t hesitate to come over if you need anything, alright?”

            Scott’s determined nod reassures Stiles enough to allow him to walk away, and he catches a glimpse of Scott approaching Allison out of the corner of his eye as he makes his way towards Derek.

            “Stiles.” Derek greets him, arms crossed across his chest in that way that makes his biceps look amazing.

            “Yes, boss-man?” Stiles replies.

            “You were hurting in the last part of the meeting, weren’t you?” Though Derek poses it as a question, something about the tone of his voice tells Stiles that it’s already a drawn conclusion, that he better not try to argue or squirm his way out of this.

            “It’s not a big deal,” he says instead. “I can handle it.”

            Derek looks frustrated. “That’s not what I meant. I want you to let us know if you’re hurting, alright? Next time, we’ll stop.”

            If one example of Derek showing concern for Stiles’s physical well-being was weird, two is downright surreal. After all, this is the man who had once _slammed Stiles’s head into a steering wheel_. He guesses that it’s one of those things where it’s only ok if Derek does it.

            “I’m fine,” Stiles insists. “Really. You don’t need to slow down or stop because of me.”

            Derek looks reluctant, but nods, uncrossing his arms and allowing them to fall to his sides.

            Stiles takes that as a sign that this conversation is over and takes off, a little bit slower than he normally would. He’s got work to do.

***

            Before Scott had slept with Allison for the first time, he’s kind of ashamed to admit that he’d bought into the whole cultural stereotype about sex – that guys always wanted it, and girls basically only put up with it to make their boyfriends happy. After all, what little sexual experience he’d had before Allison (sloppily making out with Sarah Ferguson during a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven, and getting his hands slapped away when he’d tried to touch her breasts over her shirt) had only supported this theory.

            Allison, though – she blew all his expectations out of the water.

            Sure, she was nervous their first time, because Scott was her first just as much as she was his, but after the first time, she had been comfortable with sex in a way that Scott had never expected.

            And now, as they look at each other from across Scott’s room, the fragile teenage relationship they’d had smashed to bits, they catch each other’s eyes, and Scott knows that Allison’s about to surprise him once again.

            He barely manages to get his hands up before she crashes into him, pressing her body against his and smashing their lips together in a kiss. Scott’s confused, of course he is, because he’s heard of make-up sex, but never break-up sex, but he gets with the program quickly, opening his mouth for Allison’s tongue and hauling her even closer by the hips.

            A large part of Scott wants to slow down, make what he knows will be his last time with Allison sweet and slow, but Allison, it seems, is having none of it. Her dark eyes are wild when she pulls back from him, eyebrows low and angry. “If we’re going to do this,” she says, her voice throaty, “it’s not going to be gentle.”

            Her voice holds no room for argument, and Scott finds himself nodding before he can think about it.

            Allison smiles at him, the anger in her eyes replaced with a bitter kind of sorrow. “Good,” she says.

            Scott can’t stand the look she’s giving him, can’t stand knowing how much he’s hurt her, so he pulls her close, moving his hands down from her hips to palm at her ass, and kisses her again.

            Allison responds immediately, and brings up her hands to tangle painfully in Scott’s hair. He relishes the tug, though, because it makes this whole thing seem that much more visceral and _real_ , the dreamlike state he’s been in since Allison arrived dissipating a little more with each tug.

            Hands still on her ass, Scott spins the both of them around, making his way towards his bed with practiced ease. When they get there, he practically shoves Allison down onto it. She bounces a little on the mattress, but her eyes, pupils blown and darkly satisfied, show Scott he’s done the right thing. He decides to push it a little bit further, and reaches down just below the surface of his consciousness, tapping into the wolf. His eyes flash gold and his teeth lengthen, just a little. Judging from the noise Allison makes, almost a growl, and the way she sits up to begin working on his belt, that’s a hit as well.

            Scott’s never thought to bring any aspect of his wolf side into bed with Allison, because he could never let go of the niggling feeling that it would scare her away, access some deep hunter part of her psyche or something. Now, though, that isn’t a concern for him, because he’s already lost her. Though physically, she’s right in front of him, sliding off his jeans and boxers, in all the ways that matter, Allison is lost to him.

            It’s sad, crushing almost, but it’s a bit of a relief, too. For so long, every decision, every movement, every _breath_ of Scott’s has revolved around Allison. Now, for the first time in a long time, Scott’s doing something just for him.

            And yeah, maybe it’s not entirely healthy that the first thing he does without being overly concerned about his ex-girlfriend is have sex with said ex-girlfriend, but Scott’s never claimed any kind of emotional health.

            Allison’s managed to get Scott’s pants and boxers down around his ankles, which means he’s standing in front of his bed, stupidly, in just his t-shirt, while she reclines on his bed, fully clothed.

            For the first time since she’d shown up in his room, Allison gives a light little laugh, doubtlessly amused at the picture that Scott presents.

            That makes him feel a little lighter, but it doesn’t really gel with the whole rough, animal sex thing they had going, so Scott strips off his shirt and steps out of his pants in as smooth a motion as he can manage, then climbs on top of Allison, bracketing her with his body.

            She tilts her head coquettishly, and brings her hands up to begin undoing the buttons on her shirt. Scott quickly decides that he doesn’t have time for that, and he grips the shirt near the top and _rips_ , causing several buttons to pop off and go flying into the corners of his room.

            Allison flips them over so she’s on top. “You’re lucky that’s not a really nice shirt,” she says, moving to straddle Scott’s naked hips while she fumbles with the clasp of her bra. Her denim-covered ass rubs against Scott’s rapidly growing erection, and he lets out a moan, which only lengthens when she gets her bra off, allowing her tits to spring free.

            Allison doesn’t have the largest breasts, but Scott’s never really minded. He loves them anyway, the gentle swell of them, the way they feel pressed against his chest, the way her nipples look when they harden.

            They’re sensitive, as well, which Scott has used to his advantage more than once. He decides to do the same now, sitting up so that Allison is in his lap. He gets one hand around each breast, loving the way just that little touch causes her to shiver and gasp. Her noises only get louder when he begins to rub his thumb over her right nipple, watching in fascination as the pink bud hardens.

            “ _Scott_ ,” Allison says, sharply. He looks up from her breasts, and right when she meets his eyes, she grinds her hips down. “Let’s get _on_ with it.”

            Scott can almost feel his eyes glazing over, but he doesn’t want to give into Allison’s demands just yet. This is all about power, power and control and rough passion, and he doesn’t intend to make it easy for Allison to get what she wants. Instead, he moves his mouth to her neck, moving some of her hair out of the way so he can suck his way down, leaving little splotches and bruises in his wake.

            He gets to her breasts, and wastes no time in sucking a nipple into his mouth. This makes Allison shudder so hard that the steady grind that she had begun in his lap stops entirely.

            Scott takes advantage of that, flipping them over for what he’s determined to make the last time. Before Allison can complain or egg him on any more, Scott begins to undo her jeans, switching to suck on the other nipple.

            She moans his name, too overcome by the feelings he’s inspiring in her to demand any more. When Scott gets her jeans off, he can see that her panties are already soaking wet. His mouth waters slightly at the sight, and he knows that, if this is going to be the last time they’re together, he’s not going to miss his chance to go down on her. He pulls her panties off and grabs her by the ankles, pulling so that she slides a few inches down the bed and he can fit comfortably between her thighs.

            He starts out with his fingers, the way she likes, because she’s told him before that it was too intense, him putting his mouth straight on her when she’s turned on. As he begins to rub little circles on her clit with his index and middle finger, he remembers the time, a few weeks after they’d had sex for the first time, that Allison had locked the both of them in her room, grabbed his right hand, and showed him, in detail, how she’d liked to be touched. He’d made her come before that night, but it had always been fairly difficult, taking much longer than Scott had ever thought an orgasm could take. With Allison’s help, though, he had learned to bring her off quickly, and he had nearly come in his pants when she’d whispered to him that she’d discovered what she liked through masturbation. Since then, one of his favorite fantasies for his own masturbation sessions has been the thought of Allison, on her back, biting her full lower lip and throwing her head back as her fingers work ceaselessly on herself.

            Now, Scott can remember every detail of that lesson, and he puts it to good use, alternating the pressure he uses on her clit while he slips one finger inside her, giving her something to clench down on.

            Allison’s been uncharacteristically quiet, and when Scott looks up, he sees that it’s because she has one hand clasped over her mouth, while the other flexes and releases into the sheets beside her. Her eyes are closed, so he can’t see how she’s feeling. Normally, this kind of behavior would make Scott stop and ask her if she’s alright, but this time, he just keeps going, because he knows she’s not alright, and this is the only thing he can do to make her feel better.

            He replaces the fingers on her clit with his mouth, sucking the little nub into his mouth and making Allison arch her back off the bed. He looks up, and sees that she’s dropped the hand from her mouth. Her eyes are wide open, and they look _feral_ in a way he’s never seen before. It’s not exactly the bloodlust he’d seen when she was out to avenge her mother. It’s close, but instead of making Scott feel scared and uncomfortable, it makes his whole body flush with heat.

            He begins to rub firm circles on Allison’s clit with his tongue, tracing the same path his fingers had taken earlier. At the same time, he slips another finger into her and crooks them both slightly, so that the tips of them press right on her g-spot.

            Allison _writhes_ underneath him, her breath coming out in short little pants. With his free hand, Scott pins her hips down, so that she doesn’t disrupt what he’s doing. She pulls her shaking legs up and hooks them around Scott’s shoulders. Scott takes the hint and shifts slightly, so that his shoulders spread her thighs as far as they can go, allowing him easier access to her pussy.

            Scott moves his mouth down to lick around the edges of the fingers that he’s still working relentlessly inside Allison, relishing her musky taste. Then, he begins to press kisses against the insides of her thighs, bringing her back from the edge.

            Allison tightens her legs so that her heels are pressing into the back of Scott’s neck, and hisses. “ _Fuck_ , Scott, don’t tease.”

            Scott looks up and gives her a shit-eating grin, taking note of the flush across her face and upper body, the way her pupils have expanded to completely envelop her irises, the little hitching motions she’s making with her hips.

            Allison digs her heel into his neck again, harder than she probably meant to, and Scott decides not to prolong the torture, because he’s so hard his dick is practically throbbing, and he really wants to get inside of her.

            He ducks his head back down and sucks on her clit again, moving the fingers inside of her even faster. He can feel her muscles clench around him, and he knows that she’s close, so he merely continues what he’s doing, until she arches off the bed again and gives a strangled scream.

            He backs off, knowing that she usually likes a few seconds to pull herself together after an orgasm. She surprises him, though, by flipping over as soon as he lets her up, getting onto her hands and knees. “Fuck me,” she demands, looking back over her shoulder. “ _now_.”

            Scott’s not about to argue, not when he can see bitten red lips and the way her dark hair contrasts with her milky pale skin, the arch in her back that shoves her ass into the air, the way her knees are planted apart for stability.

            He doesn’t have condoms within his immediate reach, though, hasn’t had any reason to for weeks, so he gets up and begins frantically digging through one of his desk drawers, trying to ignore the way his hard cock slaps against his belly with every motion.

            Allison’s watching him still, as he finds what he’s looking for, and the bitter smile is back on her face, though she still looks turned on. Scott rolls the condom on and wastes no time in crawling onto the bed behind her. He takes her by the hips, and she turns away from him, bracing her elbows on the bed and dropping her head down between her arms.

            Holding himself at the base, Scott guides his cock into her, the tight press just as overwhelming as it was their first time. Allison seems to agree, judging by the way she moans and drops her head even further, so that it’s nearly resting on the bed.

            Scott would usually give her a few seconds to adjust to the feel of his cock, but from the minute shifting of her hips, he can tell that Allison’s not willing to wait. So he pulls almost all the way out and _slams_ back in, setting a hard, driving pace.

            Allison has always liked this position (Scott refuses to call it doggystyle, even in his own mind, because that’s just a bad joke waiting to happen) because it’s the easiest way for Scott to hit her g-spot. She arches her back and let out a gasp of “there, _harder_ ,” and Scott can tell that this time’s no exception.

            His fingers are flexing on her hips, digging in just a little bit, as he shuts his eyes and really gets into it. He can feel the sweat running down the back of his neck, can tell that his breath is coming out in pants and grunts, but it’s all muffled, somehow. The only thing he can focus on is Allison and the place where their bodies are joined.

            After just a few moments, he can feel the familiar tightening of his stomach muscles that means he’s close. He’s determined to hold off until Allison comes a second time, though, so he slows his pace, no longer chasing his own orgasm.

            Allison lets out a little hiccup, but doesn’t otherwise protest the change in pace. Scott decides to up the ante, and reaches around to get his fingers back on her clit. She reacts with a moan, and suddenly what they’re doing isn’t enough.

            Suddenly, he wants to touch Allison everywhere.

            Without disconnecting their bodies, he pulls her up so she’s straddling his lap backwards, silently thanking his werewolf strength. In this position, his chest is pressed against her back, and he can hook his chin over her shoulder to watch what his hands are doing. It satisfies Scott’s craving for touch, and seems to be working for Allison as well. He can only see half of her face, but that’s enough for him to determine that her mouth is open and her eyes are glazed over as she works herself up and down on his cock.

            Scott gets his fingers to work, and it’s only a few minutes later that Allison is shaking apart in his arms, chest heaving. Scott feels like he’s been on the razor edge forever, and as Allison comes down from her orgasm, he can’t hold his own back any longer.

            Almost before he’s finished spilling into the condom, Allison rises up on her knees, allowing Scott’s softening cock to slip out of her. Without a word, she goes over to where her clothes are spread across the floor and begins to re-dress herself.

            Scott takes the hint and quickly removes and ties off the condom, searching around for his own boxers for a moment before locating them and pulling them on.

            When he turns back around from tossing the condom in the trash, Allison is fully closed except for her shirt, which is merely draped around her shoulders, due to the missing buttons.

            There’s a pit in the depths of Scott’s stomach. “Sorry about that,” he says.

            Allison looks up from where she’s fiddling with the shirt. “Don’t worry about it,” she smiles, but, though her dimples pop out, it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Like I said before, I don’t really care about this shirt.”

            There’s an awkward silence, during which Allison manages to tie the ruined shirt up so that it covers her bra, but leaves her stomach exposed. She catches Scott’s eye when she’s finished.

            He looks away, because if looking her in the eye was difficult half an hour ago, it’s now downright impossible.

            Allison gives a mirthless little chuckle and walks up to him, so their chests are only a breath apart. At this distance, Scott can’t really avoid her eyes without seeming like a complete asshole, so he’s looking right at her when she says, “I’ll see you around, Scott, ok?”

            “Ok,” he replies.

            She kisses him on the cheek and walks out of his room. Scott stays put, and they both know that she was lying.

***

            When Melissa gets home from another long shift at the hospital, she’s a little bit surprised to find Scott sitting in their living room, alone, as though he’s waiting for her. It’s not exactly unheard of for Scott to want to talk, especially lately, but what concerns her is the expression on his face. Her son is usually so expressive, happiness, anger, and sadness obvious on his face whenever he feels them. Right now, though, it’s just…blank, and that’s what clues Melissa in to the fact that something is seriously, seriously wrong.

            All of her own concerns, her sore feet and grumbling stomach and the grim guilt she feels over the death of a patient, even though there was nothing she could’ve done, instantly vanish as she goes to sit down on the couch next to Scott.

            There are times when Scott needs coaxing or even needling to talk, like most teenage boys, but Melissa knows this isn’t one of those times, almost instinctively. She supposes that comes part and parcel with being a parent, knowing what your child needs, though she can by no means read Scott all the time.

            It only takes a few moments for Scott to speak. “Allison and I are over,” he says, and though he’d said almost those exact words to Melissa just a couple of weeks before, she can tell that this time, it’s final. This time, there’s none of the hope and determination that Scott had displayed before, that stubbornness he’d inherited in equal parts from herself and his father not allowing himself to give up on Allison.

            Melissa nods, still not saying anything.

            “It’s weird, though,” Scott continues hesitantly. “I thought it would feel…different. It did before, all the other times I thought I’d lost her.”

            “You knew it wasn’t the end, then,” Melissa says, softly, so as not to startle him.

            He heaves a shaky sigh and draws his knees into his chest, clasping his arms loosely around them. “I just…I thought she was _it_ , y’know. And I know that’s stupid, that relationships this young aren’t supposed to last or whatever, but -”

            “Hey,” Melissa interrupts, placing a hand lightly on Scott’s shoulder, testing the waters, afraid this may be one of the times that he rejects physical comfort. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you what you should or shouldn’t feel.”

            He doesn’t shrug her hand off, but makes no move to accept further comfort. “That’s easy…easier said than done,” he says, and Melissa knows that’s not what he’d been thinking, knows that if it were just a few months ago, Scott would’ve given into his first impulse and said ‘that’s easy for _you_ to say’, every inch the petulant teenager. She can’t help but be a bit grateful, perverse as it is, that the last few months had matured Scott.

            “Believe me, I know.” They sit in silence for a few minutes. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Melissa finally asks. She doesn’t expect her presence to fix everything, especially given how few words have actually been exchanged between them, but usually her talking to Scott helps him at least a little. Now, though, he hasn’t changed, eyes still shuttered, looking down.

            “That’s…not the only thing that’s bothering me,” Scott admits.

            Melissa’s, quite frankly, shocked. Allison has been Scott’s main priority, to the exclusion of almost everything else, since the beginning of the school year. The idea that anything could fit into Scott’s head besides their final break-up is a novel idea. “What is it?” She asks. “You can, literally, tell me anything. I know you’re a werewolf, remember?”

            Her attempt at humor finally gets a reaction out of Scott, even if the smile is so quick and slight that she almost misses it.

            “I think I may have feelings for someone else,” Scott admits in a rush, and suddenly it all makes sense. Scott is nothing if not loyal, and Melissa knows that the idea that he could possibly feel anything for two people at once is something completely foreign to him. Abandoning all caution, she pulls him into a hug, which he relaxes into, apparently never too messed up to hug her back.

            “It’s ok, Scott,” she says softly, choosing not to comment on how his shoulders have begun shaking slightly. “Do you want to tell me who it is? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Even as she speaks, the possibilities are running through Melissa’s mind at warp speed. Scott’s not close with many girls; as far as she knows, the only ones he spends time with apart from Allison are Lydia Martin and Erica Reyes, and she somehow doubts that it’s either of them. She supposes it could be another puppy love from a distance scenario, the way it had been with Allison at first, but she doesn’t think that Scott could be distracted from Allison by someone he didn’t actually know.

            Scott’s silent for so long that Melissa thinks he’s not going to answer, and when he finally does speak, it’s so quiet that Melissa thinks she’s heard wrong. “It’s Isaac,” he says, and Melissa blinks to herself. Oh.

            “You know I’m not judging you because he’s a guy, right?” Melissa says carefully, beginning to rub Scott’s back in slow, soothing circles. “Again, I accepted lycanthropy. Bisexuality is nothing compared to that.”

            “I know,” Scott says, finally lifting his head from where it had been buried in Melissa’s shoulder. She can see the traces of tears on his cheeks in the dim light. “I just…don’t know what to do about it, you know?”

            “I know.” Melissa does. “You can’t expect to know, not so quickly. Give yourself time, and don’t rule anything out, alright?” She doesn’t ask if Isaac feels the same way (almost doesn’t have to, because, now that she thinks of it, Isaac does spend a lot of time just looking at Scott, or else sticking to his side like crazy glue).

            They stay there like that until Scott falls asleep, and then Melissa untangles herself from him, covers him up with a blanket, and goes up to her own room, collapsing face-down on her bed to try and squeeze out a few hours of sleep before her next shift.

***

            Stiles doesn’t know whether to be smug or pissed off that Derek had assigned him what was, arguably, the most difficult research assignment of them all. Even though it might have made more sense for Stiles to be researching the Kanima, seeing as, you know, he _controls_ it and all, Derek had asked him to try and figure out what Peter is up to.

            Stiles is sitting at his desk, ignoring the siren call of his bed as he clicks through endless links. What little hair he has is standing on end from running through it in frustration, and he’s gone so far as to Google a few ridiculous sentences (One of which was ‘What do you do when you control the boyfriend of the girl you’ve been in love with for years, especially when you also have a thing for a grumpy werewolf?’ which had, perhaps unsurprisingly, brought up a lot of porn) in between doing legitimate research.

            Six hours in, and he’s no closer to any answers, or even a theory besides that Peter is _fucking crazy_.

            Compounding his frustration is the fact that he keeps casting looks at his silent cell phone, waiting for a call from Scott, either gushing about getting back with Allison, or crying about _not_ getting back with Allison. Flippant as he can be, Stiles is concerned about his best friend’s well-being, and it’s a little bit worrying that Scott has gone this long without contacting him.

            Oh well. Scott’s a big boy, and besides, no news is probably good news in this case. They probably made up, and are probably having all kinds of sex right now, not that Stiles wants to picture it.

            Sighing, Stiles rolls slightly backward in his rolling chair, leaning up to crack his back and grimacing in response to the tug that causes on his injured ribs. He’s beginning to lean towards the ‘pissed off’ side of the spectrum. Derek probably gave him the hardest assignment on purpose, just to keep him busy while the rest of the pack do the important shit.

            Just like the night before, there’s a knock on Stiles’s door, but this time, when his father pulls it open after Stiles gives permission, he’s not alone.

            “Derek?” Stiles asks, sitting up straight and blinking several times, wondering if staring at the computer screen for too long has caused him to start hallucinating.

            Derek merely shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of Stiles’s father. Or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s, apparently, used the front door. Stiles has always joked that he’s allergic to normal methods of entering houses; maybe he wasn’t so far off.

            “I assume that Derek is here for some sort of werewolf business. Don’t stay too late, and make sure to tell me if my son’s going to be in any more mortal danger,” The Sheriff says sternly, directing the second half of that sentence towards Derek, whose answering nod is so serious that it suggests the Sheriff has just trusted him with a secret mission of the utmost importance.

            The Sheriff leaves them alone, then, and Stiles is a little bit surprised that his father is so willing to leave them alone. But then, he supposes, Derek had more than proven himself trustworthy, both in the warehouse and in the stories Stiles had been forced to tell his father about what had been happening over the past few months.

            “How can I help you, O Captain, My Captain?” Stiles asks, resisting the urge to give a sarcastic salute.

            Derek glares, and goes over to sit on Stiles’s bed without permission. Rude. “I don’t think I like that comparison, seeing as the captain dies,” Derek retorts, and Stiles is taken aback.

            “You get that reference?”

            Derek raises his Bitchy Eyebrow. “Walt Whitman. Or Dead Poets’ Society, for those who don’t read. I went to college, Stiles?”

            “And studied poetry?”

            “Humanities requirement,” Derek mumbles, but the way he looks down makes Stiles suspect that’s not the full story. Stiles makes a mental note to push that later, but decides to let it go for now. “Really, though, what can I do for you?”

            Derek sighs, and rubs at his forehead as though he’s trying to stave off the beginnings of a headache. “I kinda wanted someone to bounce ideas off of on this whole thing,” he admits. “The not knowing is what’s driving me crazy, especially with Peter.”

            That’s certainly better than what Stiles had expected, which was for Derek to demand he have the research done _right now_. “Sure,” he says. “Although I’m not sure how much help I’m gonna be, dude, I’ve got jack squat on this whole thing so far.” He makes a sweeping motion with his left arm at his laptop, in order to show how disappointed he is in the internet for failing him.

            Derek frowns. “It was a bit of a long shot, but I’d hoped there might be _something_ out there.” He looks disappointed, and any trace of irritation Stiles had disappeared, in face of his persistent and irrational need to please Derek.

            “I mean, I’m not _entirely_ done searching,” he hedges, but Derek just shakes his head. “You’ve been at it for, what, six hours now? If something was out there, you probably would’ve found it by now.”

            While Stiles agrees with Derek’s words, he can’t help but be a little surprised. He didn’t think Derek had that much faith in him. “So there was no, like, well-known werewolf lore about what to do when people unexpectedly came back to life?” Stiles asks. He’s joking, but Derek, unsurprisingly, appears as though he’s taking it seriously.

            “I was too young, before…” he trails off, not finishing the sentence. “My parents wanted us to be as normal as we could, at least while we were still teenagers. Even if there had been, I wouldn’t know.”

            “Sucks that the wrong one came back, doesn’t it?” Stiles asks softly. He doesn’t know if he’s overstepping a line, here, but Derek looks so discouraged that he has to try.

            Derek snorts. “Yeah, Laura would know what to do. Even if they didn’t tell her anything either, she was always smarter than me.”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Stiles says, not letting Derek deflect.

            Derek’s silent for a moment. “What I’m wondering is whether or not it was Lydia, specifically, that Peter needed to come back.”

            Stiles lets him deflect this time. “I think so. It probably has something to do with how she’s immune to the bite. Like you said, it either turns you or kills you.”

            “So you think that the bite either turned her into a creature, something like Jackson…”

            “…Or she wasn’t entirely human in the first place,” Stiles finishes. “It’s just a theory, of course, but I’m inclined to think it’s the second. She never had any sort of adjustment period, like Jackson.”

            “Not that we know of,” Derek says, frowning.

            “Dude, I think we would’ve noticed if there was another supernatural creature out there killing people,” Stiles says.

            “Not every kind of supernatural creature is violent, Stiles,” Derek says, as though that should be obvious.

            “The ones that I’ve met are.”

            “You’ve met _two_ ,” Derek says. “Maybe even one, since Jackson is technically similar to a werewolf.”

            “So you admit that werewolves are violent, then?”

            Derek glares, and Stiles smirks.

            “That’s not the point,” Derek says. “We need to try and figure out what Lydia is, if she’s anything at all.”

            “You’re not gonna try to kill her again, are you?” Stiles asks.

            “I wasn’t trying to -” Derek cuts himself off with an impatient noise. “I don’t know why I even deal with you.”

            “Because I’m a computer wizard?” Stiles suggests.

            “If you say so,” Derek says, getting up from Stiles’s bed and moving towards the door. “Get some sleep, alright? This research doesn’t have to be done tonight.” His eyes, all swirls of color that Stiles has never really been able to identify, pierce through Stiles, but Derek’s not glaring, looks almost…concerned?

            “Trust me, dude, you don’t have to tell me twice,” Stiles says, stifling a huge yawn. “I’m about thirty-five seconds from passing out right now.”

            Derek gives a half-smile. “Goodnight, Stiles,” he says, and then he’s gone, using the door again.

            Stiles shuts his laptop with a snap. He can’t be expected to deal with any more research after _that_.

***

            When Scott gets to school the next morning, he feels like everyone can see the evidence of what happened between he and Allison written all over his face. It’s the last thing he wants to talk about, though, so he dodges Stiles’s questions. Stiles is perceptive enough to realize that Scott doesn’t want to be pushed, and probably smart enough to extrapolate that Scott doesn’t want to talk about it, so he launches into the story of Derek coming over to his house the previous night.

            As Stiles speaks, sounding more incredulous with each word, Scott finds his mood lifting for the first time since Allison left his house yesterday. It’s not that the story itself is particularly entertaining – just part a billion of the Derek and Stiles show, really – but Scott finds it amusing that, for once, Stiles is the clueless one. It kind of makes sense, given that Stiles has never actually been in a relationship before, but Scott is pretty sure that blind people can see that Derek is into Stiles, and Stiles seems to have no fucking clue.

            If you had asked Scott a few months ago whether he’d be happy about Derek trying to awkwardly date his best friend (or whatever it is he’s doing), he would have said no. Then again, if you had asked him a few months ago, he’d never have thought that he and Allison would be done for good.

            That thought robs Scott of any happiness Stiles’s story had given him, and by the time he makes it to first period, his mood is black again. Both Allison and Isaac are in this class with him, which has the potential to make things extremely awkward.

            Luckily, Allison seems to hear Scott’s unspoken pleas to pretend like nothing had happened between them, because she doesn’t even look up at him when he walks by. Isaac, on the other hand, has some sort of laser focus on Scott – he’s staring so hard that Scott can almost feel it, strange expression on his face. Scott gives him a small smile of acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. He’s got to have some time to lick his wounds before he can get back to the question of whether or not he and Isaac have something.

            Scott grimaces to himself, thinking that he’s glad he isn’t talking to Stiles about this, because Stiles would never let the licking comment slide.

            The rest of the day passes in a haze, and before Scott knows it, it’s time to go to Derek’s again. While much of the rest of the pack had gotten assignments and things to do after the meeting the day before, Derek hadn’t asked Scott to do anything. It’s kind of a shame – he’d welcome the distraction.

            He rides along in Stiles’s Jeep again, and isn’t surprised when Stiles swears to himself and veers off into a parking lot a few miles away from Derek’s. He throws the car into park, turns it off, then turns to Scott, mouth open and ready to talk.

            Scott interrupts him. “Yeah, we broke up. For good,” and enjoys the way he can see the wind go out of Stiles’s sails.

            “Are you ok?” Stiles asks, and Scott immediately feels bad, because Stiles is only trying to help, only trying to look out for him.

            It’s not Stiles’s fault that Scott is a wreck.

           “Honestly?” Scott says. “No. It fucking sucks, actually.”

            Stiles nods, accepting the answer. “So when you say ‘for good’…” he begins.

           “I mean I’m not going to go after her again,” Scott says. “We’ve fucked each other over too much. I’m not sure we could fix it if we tried.”

           “You don’t want to try?” Stiles asks carefully.

           “I don’t like what our relationship became,” Scott admits. “I don’t like who she became after her mother died, and I don’t like the way I was willing to fuck everyone else over for her. Does that make me a bad person?”

           “That your relationship went sour?” Stiles asks incredulously.

           “That I’m giving up.”

           “No,” Stiles interjects, almost before Scott finishes speaking. “I may not have the personal experience to back this up, but dude. Things change, people change, _feelings_ change. It’s nobody’s fault.”

           Scott nods. He doesn’t entirely believe it, but letting Stiles in on that fact isn’t gonna help anything. “It was hard to see her, today,” he says. “It’ll probably be even harder at Derek’s.”

          “Only one way to find out,” Stiles says, starting the Jeep up again. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”

           Scott isn’t any more ready for this than he had been when Stiles had pulled over, but he merely gives a weary nod.

***

            _Six months later_

            As Scott shrugs on his suit jacket, he’s rather forcibly reminded of prom sophomore year, when his mother had sewn him up and he had been unable to think of anything but Allison.

            The smile he gives himself in the mirror at the thought is only slightly bitter. After all, he’s had time to recover, and besides, it’s his mother’s wedding – he refuses to ruin it by dredging up the past.

            Just the thought of how happy his mother’s been is enough to put a smile on Scott’s face. Melissa’s never been the kind of woman to need a man in her life, but Scott knows that the long years she’d spent raising him after his dad left had been lonely for her. Besides, he can’t think of a better man for her to be marrying.

            An impatient knock sounds on the door of the room that Scott is in. “You’d better not be naked!” Stiles calls, not waiting for Scott to answer before he’s pushing the door open.

            As best man, Stiles is dressed similarly to Scott. He’s decided to grow his hair out, because Derek apparently likes it long, and, much as Scott doesn’t want to think about that, he’s got to admit that Stiles looks good, though it’s more his happiness than the hair or the suit.

            “You couldn’t have waited for me to answer?” Scott complains, knowing the question is rhetorical.

            Predictably enough, Stiles just shrugs. “You probably could’ve stopped me from opening the door if you really wanted to.”

            And, well, Scott can’t really argue with that. “You nervous?” he asks instead.

            Though Scott has a relatively large part in the wedding himself – he’s walking his mother down the aisle, as what is left of her small family hasn’t really spoken to her since the divorce, and were thus not invited – Stiles, as best man, kind of has the entire thing riding on his shoulders.

            “A little bit,” Stiles admits. “But everyone’s probably expecting me to screw up anyway, so it’s not like the bar is set too high.”

            Scott whacks him on the shoulder, as lightly as he can manage. “Don’t do that. You’ll do fine.”

            Stiles makes a wounded face and rubs exaggeratedly at the place Scott had hit. “Has _everyone_ made it their new project to lift my self-esteem?” he complains, and Scott merely smiles, knowing that he’s referring to Derek when he says ‘everyone’. Several times over the past few months, the only thing that has kept Scott and Derek from killing each other is the fact that they both have Stiles’s best interests at heart.

            “Ugh,” Stiles says. “Anyway, your mom asked me to come and get you. It’s starting soon.”

            Scott nods and follows Stiles out of the room, fiddling with his bowtie.

            As they make their way towards the back hallway that Scott’s mom has chosen as her dressing room/hiding place, Derek melts out of the shadows to take his place by Stiles’s side. Stiles has somehow managed to force him into a suit, and he has even shaved for the occasion. He looks stiff and uncomfortable in general, but the way he falls into step with Stiles, the quick smile the two of them exchange with each other, is anything but uncomfortable.

            “Glad to see you here, Derek,” Scott says.

            “Glad to be here,” Derek says back, and he even manages to sound like he means it. “The place looks…nice.”

            Scott can’t hold in his snort, despite the warning look Stiles sends him. Scott’s mother, bucking the Bridezilla stereotype, had insisted that she didn’t care about flowers and centerpieces, and had allowed the Sheriff’s mother, who is both terrifying and a little bit blind, to decorate the church for the wedding.

            The result looks like one of those weird little Precious Moments cherub things has thrown up everywhere, and it’s absolutely hideous, though Stiles’s Babcia is thrilled with it.

            “You won’t say anything to her about it, right?” Stiles asks.

            “Of course not,” Scott says. “Just don’t let her decorate for _your_ wedding.”

            Stiles is twisted around looking at him, so Scott can see his face go bright red. Derek’s still facing ahead, but Scott guesses his face is probably a similar shade.

            “I don’t think I have to worry about that for a couple of years yet, Scott,” Stiles says, darting a quick glance at Derek.

            “Not planning on being a teenage bride, then?” Scott asks, smug.

            “Fuck you,” Stiles says easily, turning his back on Scott. They’re drawing level to Melissa’s dressing room, so Stiles and Derek wander off, but not before Scott sees Derek reach out and hesitantly take Stiles’s hand.

            Shaking his head slightly at their stupidity, Scott knocks lightly at the door of the makeshift dressing room. “Mom?” he calls.

            “Just a second!” Melissa says back, voice tight with stress, and Scott is left to contemplate the echoing church hallway for a moment until she wrenches the door open, spots of color high on her cheeks.

            Scott can’t help but gasp upon seeing her. Her disdain for wedding-related things had extended to her dress, and so she hadn’t spent endless hours looking for ‘the right one’, merely picked up an inexpensive dress from a local bridal shop.

            Though the dress is simple, strapless, white, and sheath-like, adorned only with some beading on the bodice and falling to her feet, the fact that it’s Scott’s mother, the strongest woman he has ever known, his rock and his guiding light, and she looks _radiant_.

            Her curly hair is loose over her shoulders, and her makeup is simple. Though Scott can’t see her shoes, he knows that they are flat, as Melissa thinks high heels are akin to torture. The one indulgence Melissa has made is her jewelry, beautiful diamond necklace and earrings that she treasures glittering at her throat and earlobes.

            “Mom, you look _beautiful_ ,” Scott says earnestly.

            A bit of the stress vanishes from Melissa’s face, and she manages to smile back at him. “Thanks, that’s sweet. I’m kind of freaking out, though.”

            She moves back to let Scott into the room and then shuts the door behind him.

            “There’s no need to be stressed out, mom. Everything will be fine,” Scott says.


	3. Teen Wolf, Lydia/Jackson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia/Jackson pegging, in which I never actually wrote the pegging part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got into Kink Bingo back in 2012 to try to improve my comfort with writing sex scenes and such. I had all these grand plans for all the different bingos I would make, but alas, I only ever made one bingo the first year. Nevertheless, Lydia/Jackson pegging is something the world desperately needs, so here's my humble contribution, where pegging is discussed but never actually happens.

           Jackson and Danny have the kind of friendship where it’s okay to talk about things that might ordinarily go unsaid, so when Jackson bursts, uninvited, into Danny’s room one night, plops down unceremoniously on the bed, and says, “So what’s the big deal about prostate stimulation, anyway?”, Danny doesn’t react as might be expected.

            Instead of screaming about TMI or jumping in shock, Danny merely continues typing away on his laptop from his desk, not even turning around to acknowledge Jackson. “The big deal is that it’s awesome,” he says. “What brought this on?”  
            “Lydia wants to try pegging,” Jackson replies, supremely casual, and okay, _that_ is interesting enough to get Danny to turn around.

            Jackson is sprawled out all over Danny’s bed like he owns it and has pulled a lacrosse stick out of seemingly nowhere. He’s tossing a ball up in the air and catching it, over and over, and the rhythmic motion of it lends some normalcy to this strange situation.

            “And?” Danny prompts.

            Jackson gives him a supremely unimpressed look. “Should I do it, or not?” he asks, exaggerating his words as though Danny is being dense.

            “I don’t know,” Danny says. “What am I, the Pied Piper of anal sex?”

            “Something like that,” Jackson says. “I know you have _opinions_ on this sort of thing, or did you forget Lydia’s birthday party last year?”  
            “That was _one time_ ,” Danny protests, because this is a discussion he’s had far too many times for his liking. “And yes, I did actually forget it. That’s what blacking out is.”

            Jackson shrugs, unperturbed by Danny’s annoyance. “Well, you were certainly encouraging everyone to try it that night,” he says. “In fact, you might be the one who gave Lydia the idea in the first place.”

            “Jesus.” Danny lets his head fall into his hands. “Look, do you _want_ to do it? That’s the only important thing here.”

            Jackson looks thoughtful. “I guess so,” he says. “It’s something to try, at least.” Giving a decisive nod, he catches his lacrosse ball one final time and stands up. “Thanks, Pied Piper,” he says with a smirk as he sweeps out of the room.

            Danny just sits there for a minute, then shrugs and goes back to his homework.

***

            When Jackson knocks on Lydia’s door a few minutes later, she’s expecting him. She had planned this down to a T, calculated how much time Jackson might reliably need to freak out and talk to Danny before he agreed to her request.

            She sweeps the door open, still in her clothes from school, and she knows what Jackson’s going to say before he even opens his mouth.

            “Okay, let’s do it,” he says, as though they had just been talking about this.

            Lydia smiles. “C’mon, then,” she says, cocking her head to one side. “My parents are out.”

            “I figured they might be,” Jackson mutters, but he follows her without complaint.

            This is an experiment that Lydia can already tell she’ll want to repeat in the future, so it’s important that they go slowly. It doesn’t start too differently than any other time they’ve had sex – they make out on Lydia’s bed for a while, their shirts come off because Jackson’s a tits man and also very proud of his own torso (for good reason). It’s not until Jackson sticks his hand up Lydia’s skirt and begins to rub her through her panties that she pulls back.

            “None of that,” she scolds, shifting slightly backwards from her position astride his hips so that she’s no longer pressed against his cock.

            Jackson’s pupils are blown wide, and when he nods his acquiescence to Lydia’s demand, she can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows reflexively.

            Allowing herself a smirk, Lydia climbs off of Jackson. “Take your pants off,” she orders, wiggling her own skirt down off her hips as she rummages in her bedside table for the materials they’ll need.

            When she turns back around, strap-on, harness, and lube in hand, she sees that Jackson has obeyed her request, but that he is staring at her a little apprehensively.

            Luckily, she knows just what to do in order to relax him; her panties, the only item of clothing still on her body, come off, and she stands in front of him, completely naked. Jackson is seemingly too distracted by the sheer


	4. Teen Wolf, Erica/Allison/Lydia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison/Erica/Lydia threesome, in which, yet again, I never actually got to the sex part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one of those Kink Bingo WIPs. It was going to have a Supernatural-esque feel to it, because I am nothing if not predictable in my fandom choices, where Allison and Lydia were hunters, Erica was a werewolf, and there was Kanima venom induced paralysis involved. I don't even know.

           When Lydia and Allison get back to their motel room, Lydia doesn’t waste any time in rounding on her partner.

            “Why didn’t you shoot them?” she seethes, setting her pistol on her bedside table. “What if they kill someone?”

            “You know the rules, Lydia,” Allison says, not even having the decency to look ashamed. “They didn’t hurt anyone, which means we can’t kill them. No exceptions.”

            Lydia rolls her eyes, but drops it, turning away from Allison. She knows the rules, knows that Allison has always had this incredibly firm and inconvenient moral compass, but it still chafes.  
            They’d been looking into several suspicious deaths in a small California town when they’d struck gold: an entire pack of werewolves. Lydia had been looking forward to ganking herself some monsters, when Allison had turned to her, all big brown eyes and pouty lips, and reminded her that the victims couldn’t possibly have been killed by a werewolf.

            So now, here they are, still knowing exactly jack shit about what they’re hunting, and Lydia’s pissed off.

            Before she can work herself into a really impressive sulk, there’s a knock at the door.

            Lydia exchanges a look with Allison, her annoyance melting away as she picks her gun back up. No one should know where they are, and it’s far too late for housekeeping. It’s probably just someone who’s confused about their room number, but you don’t live long in Allison and Lydia’s line of work without being careful.

            Lydia keeps the gun down by her side as Allison, who’s closer, opens the door, then steps back in shock.

            It’s one of the werewolves, the dangerous-looking blonde one, and she walks right into the room without any compunction, shutting the door behind her. Lydia instantly brings her gun up, silently cursing the fact that she hadn’t gotten the chance to reload it with wolfsbane bullets yet. Even if she does shoot this werewolf, it won’t kill her, or even slow her down.

            The werewolf half-heartedly raises her hands towards the ceiling, one of her eyebrows going up at the same time. Her red-painted mouth is twisted into an amused smirk, which might just annoy Lydia more than anything else about her.

            “I’m Erica, by the way,” the werewolf says, and then when neither Allison or Lydia make a move to answer, “The usual response to someone introducing herself to you is to reciprocate, you know.”

            “What are you doing here?” Allison asks. Her bow is up, arrow already nocked, and her sweet face is hard.

            Erica laughs, abandoning any attempt at keeping her hands in the air. “Two pretty girls like you?” she says. “I’m here for some _fun_.”

            She leers, then, giving Lydia a very obvious once-over, and before Lydia can examine the small stirring of excitement that causes in her, Allison has loosed the arrow directly towards Erica.

            With reflexes that still shock Lydia, no matter how many werewolves she’s come into contact with, Erica turns around and snatches Allison’s arrow out of the air.

            “Well, there’s no need for that,” Erica drawls, still clutching the arrow. “I’m not trying to -”

            Throughout her sentence, Erica’s speech gets slower and slower, so gradually that she doesn’t even seem to notice. Lydia notices, though, and she thanks her lucky stars that Allison


	5. One Direction RPF, Harry/Louis, Liam/Zayn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something something all boys school, something something Shakespeare, something something Larry and Ziam and straight Niall always playing the female roles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one for the "I don't even know" category. I randomly got this idea while in a Shakespeare class a couple of years ago. The basic gist of it was that Louis and Liam were going to be like best friends who are also rivals for the best parts in their school's twice-yearly Shakespeare play, and Louis is still kinda smarting from the fact that Liam got to play Hamlet last spring while he was stuck as Ophelia, and then they're doing Romeo and Juliet, and Liam convinces his new boyfriend Zayn to try out, and _of course_ he gets to be Romeo, and then there's some curly-haired upstart who wows everyone with his Juliet, and Louis and Liam are Mercutio and Benvolio, respectively, and Niall is loving life as the Nurse, and shenanigans and love.

            It’s a week into the semester and, like he has a week into every semester for the past three years, Louis is sitting outside the auditorium, waiting for his turn to audition.

            He looks down at the paper in his hands, the lines he’d memorized before the play was even announced. He catches a glance of _Her traces, of the moonshine’s wat’ry beams; Her collars, of the smallest spider web_ before he looks back up, knowing from experience that studying lines he already knows will just cause confusion.

            As he raises his head, he sees Liam and Zayn coming towards him, linked hands swinging between them. Louis is grateful for the interruption, and he decides to show it by launching himself at the couple, wrapping arms and legs around whatever part of the other boys he can reach.

            Zayn gives a grunt and Liam a sigh, both far too used to Louis’s antics to bother reacting further. Louis doesn’t let that bother him, though, merely drops his feet back to the ground and beams at them. “Ready, Li?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

            He had met Liam a week into his freshman year, both of them waiting for the auditions that would eventually get them cast in bit parts in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

            Through the next four plays (always Shakespeare, because their school was all-boys and the drama department was obsessed with historical accuracy), Liam and Louis had been inseparable, their shared passion for theatre getting them through the times when their personalities had clashed.

            Liam had been there when Louis was cast as one of the witches in _Macbeth_ , and, in turn, Louis had cheered Liam up when he hadn’t gotten a lead in _Othello_. Liam had been the Claudio to Louis’s Benedick last year, when fucking Matt and Aiden in the class two years ahead of them had finally graduated, and it had seemed like it would be smooth sailing from there on out: Louis and Liam, playing leads alongside each other for the rest of their high school careers.

            Of course, that was before The Hamlet Incident.

            Louis doesn’t want to think about that now, so he tunes back in to Liam’s answer, in time to hear him say “’s auditioning, too!” in an excited voice.

            From the way Liam’s beaming at Zayn as though he’s just performed some sort of amazing trick, and the way Zayn’s looking down and blushing, Louis assumes that Liam had been trying to tell him that he’s finally convinced Zayn to take part in the play.

            “Knew we’d get to you eventually, Zayner!” Louis says, going in for a hug.


	6. Merlin RPF, Bradley James/Colin Morgan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Contrary to popular belief, Bradley and Colin didn’t actually start sleeping together until they were halfway through filming the third series of Merlin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happened way back in the day when I was writing [Help to Lift Your Head](http://archiveofourown.org/works/555615) and I got frustrated with myself and considered starting a different fic. Basically, it was going to be, like, tons of mutual gross pining while they thought the other only wanted a friends with benefits type thing.

            Contrary to popular belief, Bradley and Colin didn’t actually start sleeping together until they were halfway through filming the third series of _Merlin_.

            Looking back on it, even Bradley’s not sure how they managed that to leave it that long. He’s been fascinated by Colin from the beginning and, now that he knows what signs to look for, it’s pretty obvious that Colin had been in the same boat.

            Well, not exactly in the same boat. On the same lake, maybe? Certainly they were both in the water. Because ‘in the same boat’ implies that both people want the same thing from their relationship. Unfortunately for Bradley, that’s not the case.

            He doesn’t mean to make it sound like Colin’s some kind of jerk who only uses people for sex – Colin’s the nicest goddamn person Bradley _knows_ , ok, there’s no way he’d do that.

            Thing is, Colin isn’t exactly aware of the depth of feeling Bradley has for him, partly because he’s oblivious, but mostly because Bradley’s an idiot who’s allergic to talking about his actual feelings.

            Hey, at least no one can ever accuse Bradley of not being self-aware.

***

            They met, as actors often do, at a table read. Bradley had come in, scruffy and unshaven after having overslept, still high on the feeling of booking his biggest role yet.

            He’d slipped into the chair with his nametag on it, ignoring the side-eye he got from the girl across from him (Katie, her nametag informed him, and she was one of the most beautiful women Bradley had ever seen. It wasn’t like he was going to try to pull her or anything, though. He was reasonably certain that being rejected by someone he’d be expected to work with for the foreseeable future would put a damper on things. Plus, she wasn’t really his type, anyway. Ice Queen and all.)

            Then, someone had plopped into the chair next to Bradley, and he’d forgotten that Katie Ice Queen even existed.

           It was a bloke, and the first thing Bradley had noticed about him was his goddamn _ears_. They were pretty hard to miss, admittedly, sticking out of the side of his head like a pair of handles for his face. By all logic, they should _detract_ from his looks, but Bradley had never been the type of person to do or feel what everyone else thought he should.

            Bradley supposed he could just start up a conversation with the bloke, casually introduce himself with a ‘hey mate, I’m Bradley, and I’ll be playing your future king’. Instead, Bradley chose to take advantage of the fact that the bloke was looking the other way, and leaned around him to take a gander at his nametag.

            COLIN MORGAN, it said in block letters, and underneath, in slightly smaller script, ‘MERLIN’.

            Bradley couldn’t stop the smile that stole over his face at that. He didn’t know much about the show at that point, nobody did, but he _had_ heard that the relationship between Prince Arthur and Merlin would be a focal point.

            Which meant that Bradley would be seeing quite a lot of Colin Morgan and his ears in the future.

            It was going to be brilliant.

***

            Despite what some people (Angel and Katie) may think, Bradley maintains that he was _not_ looking for some sort of romantic relationship with Colin from the start. It was perfectly normal to be slightly obsessed with another person’s ears. And their hair. And their face. And their body. And their eyes.

            _Anyway_ , the point is that Bradley is, and always has been, a professional. As attractive as he found Colin, he knew that he’d have to build a friendship, a rapport with him, if _Merlin_ was to be successful, and if he were to have any chance at all at a relationship with Colin.

            Unfortunately, it seemed for a few years as though Bradley had seriously miscalculated his strategy.

            Bradley doesn’t really like the term ‘friendzone’, because he’s not a complete douche and he understands why it’s offensive to imply that people you’re nice to owe you sex. However, during the filming of those first two series, it was the only word that could really encompass the relationship of Colin and Bradley. _Everyone_ knew that there was something more about their relationship. Angel, Katie, Richard, Tony, the Js, their various guest stars – all of them could tell, no matter how little time they actually spent with the duo, that their sexual tension was off the charts.

            And, after the show actually aired, it seemed like the whole rest of the world did too. Not only was there an explosion of people who suddenly thought that Arthur and Merlin would be perfect for each other, there were those who thought Bradley and Colin should date, as well.

            Privately, Bradley agreed, but he always made sure to laugh it off when it was brought up. Hiding in plain sight, and all.

***

            The first time they slept together was completely unexpected.


	7. Doctor Who/Torchwood, Rose/10, Jack/Ianto, Martha/Mickey, Tosh/Owen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Rose Tyler had ended up in Cardiff, instead of appearing to Donna in series 4?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda reluctant to post this one, because I really do want to finish it. It was going to be sort of a fix-it of what happened in "The Stolen Earth" and "Journey's End".

           Since discovering Jack’s immortality, Ianto has imagined a thousand ways it might have happened.

            Jack being hit by an alien ray on some far-off planet, hundreds or thousands of years in the future, falling on the battlefield and then getting up again, shocked. Jack being caught in some prince or princess’s bedroom, cursed by a jealous lover or angry father. Jack, somehow, being born that way, an anomaly even in the fifty-first century.

            He can’t say that a smiling blonde woman with a rough east London accent ever figured into any of his imaginings, but Jack has long had a way of surprising Ianto on a daily basis.

***

            Though Jack normally spends his nights roosting at the Hub like some sort of bloody great bat, he has occasionally, since swanning off with the Doctor and his subsequent return, deigned to go home with Ianto.

            They’re not terribly domestic, despite some of Jack’s half-arsed attempts to become so, and the whole walking into work together thing reminds Ianto, strangely, of furniture shopping with Lisa.

            Jack’s telling one of his customary long-winded and inappropriately sexual stories and Ianto is taking great pleasure in poking holes in it when he sees her.

            Part of the reason he notices her is because, despite current evidence to the contrary, he is, in fact, attracted to women, and he’s always appreciated a curvy blonde (again, despite evidence to the contrary).

            However, the larger part of the reason he notices her is the fact that she’s holding a big fuck-off gun, almost as long as she is tall. It’s so comically large, in fact, that all of the other people milling around the Plass aren’t paying her much attention, thinking it’s some kind of prop.

            Ianto knows better, though, and that’s why he says “Jack,” in a strangled whisper, looking at her out of the corner of his eye so as not to draw attention to himself (though, as he is standing next to Jack, who seems to attract attention with his general existence, this may be an exercise in futility).

            Jack stops speaking instantly, following the careful flick of Ianto’s eyes towards the woman.

            He expects Jack to fall into leader-mode, to give some quiet orders or maybe even pull out his Webley.

            What he most emphatically does _not_ expect is for Jack to let out a loud whoop and then take off at a full sprint across the Plass, directly towards the woman holding the giant gun.

            So, naturally, that is exactly what Jack does.

            The woman answers Jack’s whoop with a smile like the sun and begins to run at almost the same moment that Jack does, allowing the gun to freely slap against her torso.

            Ianto follows Jack at a much more sedate pace, hands in his pockets, turning over this situation in his mind and trying to make sense of it.

            Jack and the woman meet in the middle of the Plass, the woman jumping into Jack’s arms without hesitation. Jack bears her weight and the weight of the gun easily, picking her up and spinning her around. Jack’s laugh is loud, booming, and the woman’s is bright and tinkling as she buries her face in Jack’s neck and wraps her legs around his waist.

            Former lovers, Ianto decides, awkwardly coming to a stop a few meters away from the tangle of Jack-and-woman. Some random people have stopped to stare at them, looking like they’ve seen a particularly adorable baby animal.

            It’s highly irritating, and Ianto resists the urge to clear his throat and remind Jack of the fact that they are actually supposed to be at work right now, and if they don’t come in Gwen will worry, and the last time _that_ happened, it had ended in a city-wide manhunt and their coworkers catching them in a compromising position.

            Finally, Jack puts the woman down. He doesn’t move far, though, and cups her face in his hands. He’s facing away from Ianto, but Ianto can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Rose Tyler. _God_ , is it good to see you!”

            Ianto quickly runs through his mental archive of Jack-related information and comes up empty on the name ‘Rose Tyler’. Whoever this woman is – and she has to be important, because Ianto’s not sure if he’s ever seen Jack this excited before – Jack hasn’t mentioned her.

            That’s not entirely surprising, as Jack is nothing if not secretive, but it does make Ianto worry.

            “You too!” Rose replies, hugging Jack again. “How long has it been?”

            Ianto’s rather surprised to hear that she’s got a typical London accent, the sort he’d heard a lot of back when he’d worked at Torchwood One. Not an alien, then, or at least, an alien that’s spent a lot of time in the East End.

            “One hundred and ninety-eight thousand years, give or take?” Jack suggests, and he and Rose both laugh as though what he’d said actually made sense.

            Rose finally steps back out of Jack’s arms, resettling the gun against her chest from where Jack had knocked it askew. Her eyes fall on Ianto, hovering too closely to be a stranger, and she asks “Who’s this, then?” slightly suspicious.

            This seems to finally remind Jack that Ianto exists, and he whirls around, greatcoat swishing dramatically around his legs.

            Ianto shoots him his best ‘what the hell?’ look, but Jack ignores it. “Rose Tyler, meet Ianto Jones,” he announces, “He’s my…colleague.”

            Ianto rolls his eyes.

            “Colleague, huh?” Rose asks, taking a step towards Ianto and running a critical eye up and down his body. “Who’d have thought, Captain Jack Harkness in a proper job.”

            “I wouldn’t quite call it a proper job,” Ianto says, remembering his manners and offering Rose his hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

            “You as well,” Rose says, turning that smile on Ianto. “What d’you lot do, then?”

            Ianto’s not looking at Jack, then, doesn’t see Jack’s eyes go wide and doesn’t see Jack’s head shake frantically back and forth. He thinks that Rose seems to be familiar with time travel, and so he doesn’t have any compunctions when he answers, “We’re Torchwood.”

            Ianto hears Jack make a noise not unlike

***

            Ianto means to ask Jack as soon as they’re alone, but, as often seems to happen when Ianto finds himself alone with Jack, he loses both his self-control and his trousers very quickly, and it’s not until after, when Ianto is wrecked and flush and sweaty and sticky, and Jack somehow still looks annoyingly perfect, that he gets the chance to bring it up.

            “Why doesn’t Rose know? About you?” Ianto asks, turning onto his side and in the process kicking the already crumpled duvet off of Jack’s bed and onto the floor.

            He’s fully expecting Jack to evade the question, though his favorite method of distraction is quite out of the question at the moment, as Ianto doesn’t think he could get it up again so soon even under express orders.

            It appears that Rose’s reappearance has shaken Jack more than Ianto thought, though, because Jack, lying on his back with limbs akimbo, merely sighs and says, “Because I wasn’t. When I knew her.”

            Jack has never so clearly alluded to the time before his immortality before. It’s still a little opaque, of course, because Jack wouldn’t be Jack if he weren’t infuriatingly mysterious, but Ianto is perfectly capable of reading between the lines.

            Though Jack’s not looking at him, and Ianto can only see his profile, his face is still open, so Ianto ventures his thoughts with only a little trepidation. “So the time she thinks you died…that’s when it happened?”

            Jack’s silent for a long moment, during which Ianto listens to the quiet hum of the Hub’s machinery around them. Jack’s room is situated directly beneath his office, and it’s both small and dark, no windows connecting it with the hub. Though he doesn’t have any direct experience with them, Ianto imagines that the room must feel similar to a much more comfortable foxhole, and he sometimes wonders what it says about Jack that he has chosen to model his private space after something that must have been so unpleasant.

            Finally, Jack flops carelessly onto his side to face Ianto. His face is drawn and sad, none of his customary cocky mask in place, and in this moment, Ianto can easily look past the unlined face and youthful body to see how old Jack really is.

            “We were on a satellite, in the year two hundred thousand,” Jack begins, and if his voice weren’t so soft and serious, that is the kind of statement that would cause Ianto to doubt his story’s veracity. “The Doctor, Rose, and I. We were under siege from the Daleks, thousands of them, and I’m sure I don’t have to tell _you_ , of all people, how bad our situation was.”

            Though Ianto tends to think of the Cybermen when he remembers Canary Wharf, since it was them who had captured Lisa and destroyed his life, he remembers the Daleks. He remembers how absolutely absurd they had looked, like rolling rubbish bins holding a whisk and a plunger, but he also remembers seeing them kill, seeing them shoot a single beam of energy out of their eyestalk and roast a person alive.

            Jack obviously sees this on Ianto’s face, because he doesn’t elaborate any more on the Daleks. “Anyway, there was pretty much no way that we could possibly get out of it, but the Doctor, he’s the type that won’t back down, won’t leave things like that alone. He couldn’t bear to lose Rose, though, so he tricked her, had her go into the TARDIS and sent it back to Earth.”

            “He couldn’t have sent you as well?” Ianto asks, bristling. He doesn’t know much about Jack’s relationship with the Doctor, but he has an idea of Jack’s feelings, and how much it must have destroyed him to see the Doctor so concerned about Rose while not even thinking about Jack.

            For the first time since he started telling the story, Jack smiles, though it’s small and bitter. He takes Ianto’s hand, which has curled up into a fist, and smooths it out, tangling their fingers together. “I didn’t want to go,” he says, “And neither did Rose. You don’t know him, Ianto. I didn’t want to live in a world where he didn’t exist, and I would happily have died for him, a thousand times over.”

            That hurts a little bit, but Ianto carefully doesn’t examine why, doesn’t let it show on his face. “Go on,” he prompts.

            Jack nods, but doesn’t let go of Ianto’s hand. “So Rose and the TARDIS were gone, and the Doctor was in this control room, trying some last-ditch stuff to beat the Daleks. I was guarding the door, along with some of the civilians who were trapped on the satellite, and then the Daleks came around the corner. We shot at them, but you know that guns don’t work, and then they killed me. Did their little ‘exterminate’ thing, and then I was dead.”

            Ianto frowns in confusion. “That’s it?”

            “Not quite,” Jack says, “But it’s all I knew for a long time. So I wake up, God only knows how long later, and the Daleks are all gone. They’re literally dust on the ground. Then I hear that noise, that TARDIS noise, y’know, and I get up just as the TARDIS leaves. Luckily, my vortex manipulator was still working -” he gestures absently to his right wrist, though he has taken the omni-present wristband off “- so I managed to jump back to Earth, but I landed in the mid-1800s, and then the thing crapped out on me. So I came to Cardiff, ‘cause I knew the Doctor would come back sooner or later, and I took the slow path.”

            Ianto has a million and one questions, though he suspects the story’s not quite over, so he only allows himself to ask one. “Vortex Manipulator?” he asks absently. As Jack launches into an explanation that’s quite far above Ianto’s head, despite his relatively decent grasp of physics, Ianto is only half paying attention.

            If he’s gotten this correct, than Jack has lived the majority of his immortal life having no idea how he came to be that way. Suddenly, Jack’s lack of explanation on this topic makes a great deal more sense. Ianto can’t even imagine what it must have been like for him.

            “Anyway,” Jack says, apparently done explaining the Vortex Manipulator. “I waited around until the Doctor showed up again, ‘cause I hoped that he could fix me, or at least tell me what happened. No dice on the first one, as you know, but he did tell me about the second.”

           Jack pauses, then says “It was Rose,” and Ianto almost thinks that he’s misheard.

           “Rose?” he asks. “Rose Tyler, the twenty-year old girl from the East End. She’s the reason that you’re immortal.”

           “Hard to believe, right?” Jack says.

***

            As Martha approaches the Millennium Centre, walking across the Roald Dahl Plass, she can’t help but think of the last time she’d been to Cardiff, with the Doctor.

            Today’s mission doesn’t have much in common with that, save the location: no Doctor, no TARDIS, head honchos of UNIT on her speed dial – but at least she’ll get to see Jack again.

            She likes Jack – hard not to, with a bond forged in fire and blood like they have, the ghost of Harold Saxon haunting them at every turn – but it’s more than that, deeper. Jack is the only person she’s ever met who has been changed by the Doctor as deeply or as irreversibly as she has.

            She doesn’t know if it’s their shared feelings, their infatuation, that resulted in this evolution, this change, but she suspects that it cannot be separated out, because she cannot imagine someone not being in love with the Doctor from the moment they meet him.

            She supposes she’ll discover a third data point today. And there it is, the thing, the person that she doesn’t want to think about.

            Martha has lost a lot of sleep over Rose Tyler: in the TARDIS, the living hum of the spaceship surrounding her, and back at home in her own bed, the silence oppressing her even in the middle of London. It hadn’t always been negative feelings – in the times when the Doctor would get into one of him moods, falling silent and pensive, she had sometimes wished for nothing more that the return of Rose, anything to help smooth the wrinkles from the Doctor’s forehead, to take some of the sorrow out of that thousand-yard stare.

            Martha had never thought of herself as a jealous person, especially not over a man. Med-school Martha would have scoffed at the very idea of herself ever thinking of another woman as a rival, despising another woman for getting to a man first. Even now, when she goes out on dates (Tom had lasted the longest, a solid three months before her inability to relate to him had gotten between them), she doesn’t find herself getting jealous, doesn’t find herself reading into the stories of his past or watching his eyes on the street lest they linger on some other woman.

            Of course, the really galling thing is that it had never, ever been a competition. Even with Rose long gone, locked in another dimension, somehow, the Doctor had still loved her more than he ever loved Martha. That just might be the reason that Martha gets along so well with Jack, loathe as she is to admit it – he had even less of a chance with the Doctor than she did.

            She’s trying, though, she really is. She’d recognized the poisonous influence, the twisting of the acid in her stomach that was beginning to shape her into something unrecognizable and awful. She’d gotten out, she’s throwing herself back into the dating world, and making a career for herself. She’s a little ashamed to admit it, but she feels like all of the progress she’s made is being stripped away as she approaches the small, ramshackle building that operates as a tourist’s office/cover for Torchwood Three.

            She steps inside, and the young man behind the counter, who looks supremely out of place in his full suit, looks up from the magazine that he’s idly flipping through. “Sorry,” he says politely. “We’re closing.” He’s very attractive, this man, all Welsh accent and boyish face, and Martha immediately suspects Jack of biased hiring processes. It’s not exactly a surprise.

            Martha holds up her UNIT id card, and the young man’s entire demeanor changes. His eyes, a bright electric blue, widen, and he immediately stands up straight from where he had been leaning over the desk. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” he says, even though he and Martha must be around the same age. He steps out from behind the desk and makes a sweeping motion with one arm towards the wall, which swings open. Martha, at the young man’s prompting, begins to walk through it, and she hears the young man following a respectable distance behind her. “Jack, your VIP visitor is here,” he says, obviously talking into some kind of headset, but Martha doesn’t pay him much mind, too busy looking curiously around the short passage, which ends in a circular apparatus that looks like a large gear.

            She can hear people talking on the other side, and as she draws closer to what she thinks is a door, she hears a familiar voice begin to speak.

            “Suddenly, in an underground mortuary on a wet night in Cardiff, I hear the song of a nightingale,” the voice says, warm and amused, and the young man behind Martha does something that makes the gear-door roll open, exposing the figure of Captain Jack Harkness.

            “Miss Martha Jones,” he says, giving her a wink, and Martha doesn’t know where to look first. This place is cavernous, located under one of the most popular landmarks in Cardiff, and is absolutely bristling with technology, but much as she’s like to look around, she’s really more interested in the people that are lurking behind Jack. Given the one thing she knows about Rose Tyler, her hair color, Martha can guess that none of the three people she can currently – a man with a pointed face in a lab coat, a brunette woman with a fringe and a gap-toothed smile, and a pretty, Asian woman – are Rose. The rest of Jack’s team, then.

            Given the apparent absence of Rose, Martha has no compunctions about walking over and allowing herself to be swept up into a warm hug from Jack. He pulls away after a few moments and some heartfelt, if cursory, good-to-see-yous, and introduces his team one at a time. “Toshiko,” the Asian woman, likely Japanese, given the name. “Owen,” the team medic, then, Jack had told her about him. “Gwen,” the brunette. “Ianto,” the young man who had brought her down here. “Meet Martha.”

            They all give polite little waves, and Martha is sure to return them, but everyone knows that it’s not Jack’s team she’s here to see. “Where’s Rose, then?” she asks. She wants to get this first meeting out of the way, not least because she has a burning curiosity towards the woman who’d captured the Doctor’s heart.

            “I’m here,” a female voice calls out, and Rose steps out from the depths of the base, the overhead lights catching her face and throwing it into sharp relief.

            When Martha had pictured Rose in the past, she’d imagined someone who both looked and acted somewhat similar to Joan Redfern, the woman that the Doctor’s memory-free human version had fallen for. Besides the hair color, though, Rose doesn’t actually have anything in common

***

            A noise fills the Hub, a kind of scraping, sawing whine, and it’s interesting to see how three separate heads – Martha’s, Rose’s, and Jack’s – immediately snap up.

            Martha bounds up from the medical bay, leaving Owen in the dust, and Jack comes down from his office, where he’d been having one of his habitual top-secret chats with Gwen, who follows after him just as Owen follows Martha. Tosh merely swivels around in her chair to face where the noise seems to be coming from.

            Ianto’s making coffee, and he merely pulls two more mugs out of the cupboard, knowing that the Doctor isn’t likely to be travelling alone. He notes absently that if they’re going to continue playing host to this rag-tag group of time travelers, they’re going to need to buy more utensils, because he’s tired of doing the washing-up.

            Rose is the only one who hasn’t moved. She’s sat in the chair at the desk that’s nominally Gwen’s, and she is staring wide-eyed at the patch of air in front of Ianto where a rectangular outline has begun to materialize.

            It flickers in and out of existence in time with the crescendo of the sound. When it finally settles, taking much longer than seems necessary or practical, Ianto cannot help feeling a jolt of excitement.

            He has just enough time to register the letters spelling out POLICE BOX across the top of the TARDIS before the door swings inward and a slim, handsome man wearing black-rimmed glasses and a preoccupied frown steps out, almost directly into Ianto.

            He gives Ianto a quick once-over and his frown deepens. “You’re not Jack,” he pronounces.

            “I’m not,” Ianto agrees. “Tea or coffee?”

            There’s a beat, and then a smile spreads over the man’s face, making him look much younger than Ianto knows him to be. “Tea would be lovely. I’m the Doctor.”

            Ianto has to try really hard to resist the urge to say ‘I know’. He’s helped with that by the brash female voice that comes out of the depths of the TARDIS: “Were you planning on letting me out, or what?”

            The owner of the voice, a red-haired woman, bodily pushes past the Doctor. She, too, stops to give Ianto a long look, but hers is decidedly more sexual in nature than the Doctor’s had been, and it is only Ianto’s experience with prolonged exposure to Jack that prevents him from blushing under her gaze.

            “Donna Noble,” the woman says. “Coffee for me, please.”

            Ianto smiles, liking her immediately. “Ianto Jones,” he says in turn.

            “Yeah, you are,” Donna mutters, and that’s when Jack pops his head around the side of the TARDIS.

            “You’re taking over my job,” he jokes, giving Donna that wide, disarming smile that so often makes people (and Ianto grudgingly includes himself in that category,) swoon over him. “Captain Jack Harkness.”

            “Don’t start,” the Doctor cuts in, exasperated, almost before Jack can finish his introduction.

            Donna ignores him entirely, aside from a roll of her eyes, and holds out a hand to Jack, who kisses it. He seems to be delighted to meet a kindred spirit.

            Martha cuts in, then, and Ianto takes that as a cue to make the Doctor and Donna their drinks, because he can guess how their reunion is going to go, and he’s quite frankly not interested.

            By the time he has unobtrusively asked Donna how she takes her coffee, made both the tea and the coffee, and passed Donna her cup, the Doctor has appeared to remember that this isn’t just a social visit.

            “So Jack,” he says, jamming his fists into the pocket of his trenchcoat and rocking back on his Converse-clad heels. When he says Jack’s name, he emphasizes the end of it, making the k sound very sharp. “You’ve been trying rather hard to get me here. What is it that’s so important?”

            It seems that Rose has finally gotten over her Doctor-related paralysis, because she’s inching around the TARDIS in the same way that Jack had a few moments earlier, big brown eyes fixed on the Doctor and lower lip pulled between her teeth. Ianto suddenly feels foolish to have though that Rose was in love with Jack, even for a second, because affectionate as they are with each other, Rose has never looked at Jack the way she’s looking at the Doctor right now.

            The Doctor’s still going on, teasing Jack about his perceived inability to manage even Cardiff without needing help, when Rose cuts him off with a soft “Doctor?”

            Instantly, the Doctor stops talking, and all the manic energy that seems to characterize him seeps out of him in an instant.


	8. Teenage Wasteland (Supernatural Glee AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin, and pretty much exactly as bad as it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also really didn't want to post this one, not because I wanted to finish it, but because it was my first serious attempt at fanfiction, and it's terrible. Seriously, it's OOC and just generally ridiculous, but hey. Might as well get it out there, right? It's more or less a Glee au of Supernatural (no, really), wherein a cis!girl version of Sam is more or less Rachel Berry, Gabriel is Jesse St. James, Dean is Puck, Cas is sort of like Rory the Irish kid from the third season of Glee (no, _really), and you can see the taste in music that 2011 me had. If any of this sounds familiar, it's because I was inspired by a fic of[Twentysomething's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twentysomething/pseuds/twentysomething)._

           Samantha Wesson is furious. No, that’s not strong enough. She’s seething. Outraged. _Pissed_. And it’s all Adam Milligan’s fault.

            O.K., so maybe she was a little quick to assume she would be his new girlfriend after the whole Anna fiasco came out. But it’s not like he hadn’t been flirting with her for weeks. It’s not like he hadn’t kissed her in the auditorium (after making a joke about “airplane cups”, which she had found cute at the time, but in retrospect was just _stupid_ ). And it’s not like they weren’t fresh off an amazing, chemistry-filled performance at Sectionals! All in all, Sam thinks she can be forgiven for thinking Adam would want to take it further.

            Anyway, she’s not thinking about Adam right now. Right now, she’s concentrating on finding another “Hello”-based solo for Glee Club (screw Mr. Shurley, “Gives You Hell” totally counted, and besides, she’s just been _jilted_. He could cut her a little slack). She flips through various sheet music, and, as she contemplates the relative merits of Lionel Ritchie’s “Hello” vs. “Hello Twelve, Hello Thirteen, Hello Love” from _A Chorus Line_ (she could probably get Dean to sing the duet with her, but ew, he’s like her brother, no), she feels the stress of the past few days melt away. This is what she was meant to do. This is how she’ll spend the rest of her life. Adam Milligan is a high school crush, but music will always be there for her.

            She’s yanked out of her mental choreography (maybe a little ballet here? Ruby would definitely make fun of her) by a voice over her shoulder.

            “Lionel Ritchie? Looks like you wouldn’t know good music if it bit you in the ass, kiddo.”

            Sam whirls around, ready to whip out her rape whistle, only to find herself face-to-face, (or rather, chest-to-face), with a familiar-looking brunet whose face is arranged in a wicked smirk around the lollipop in his mouth. The retort she was planning on making dies on her lips, and what comes out instead is:

            “You’re Gabriel St. James. The lead singer of Vocal Adrenaline!”

            Gabriel draws the lollipop out of his mouth with a loud pop and wiggles his eyebrows at her.

            “The one and only. And you’re Sammy Wesson, the Barbra wannabe.”

            Barbra wannabe!? That’s it. Gabriel St. James’s smug ass is not leaving this music store without a verbal smackdown, silky voice and infuriatingly attractive face be damned. Sam draws herself up to her full height (which, she is pleased to note, is a good three inches taller than Gabriel’s) and says in her most condescending voice

            “My name is Samantha. And what would you consider good music? Nickelback?”

            It’s on now. Accusing someone of liking Nickelback is the quickest way Sam knows to start an all-out war. Her dads had almost split up over a similar fight once.

            Instead of rising to Sam’s bait, Gabriel merely grins and walks over to a conveniently placed guitar, hefting the strap over his shoulder with practiced ease.

            “Let me show you, Sammy.”

            The chords he begins to play are familiar to Sam, but it takes her until he starts to sing to place the song.

_I don't feel as if I know you  
You take up all my time   
The days are long and the nights will throw you away   
'cause the sun don't shine   
Nobody ever mentions the weather   
Can make or break your day   
Nobody ever seems to remember   
That life is a game we play _

By this point, everyone in the store has their eyes on Gabriel. His voice is _made_ for this kind of music, smooth, but with just a bit of roughness to add sex appeal to the rock vibe of the song. He has the kind of stage presence (regardless of the fact that there is no actual stage) that most would kill for. He’s mesmerizing, and Sam can see that he has earned his spot as the lead singer of the best Glee Club in America.

But Sam’s never been one to let others hog the spotlight. She joins in after a slight break in the music, harmonizing with Gabriel effortlessly.

_We live in the shadows and we had the chance and threw it away  
And it's never gonna be the same   
'cause the years are falling by like the rain   
And it's never gonna be the same   
Till the life I knew comes to my house and says   
Hello_

They sound better together than Sam would have guessed, given their different vocal styles. Gabriel seems impressed, and he motions for Sam to take the next verse.

_  
There ain't no sense in feeling lonely  
I've got no faith in you   
But I've got a feeling you still owe me   
So wipe the shit from your shoes _

_Nobody ever mentions whoever  
Can make or break your day   
Nobody ever seems to remember   
That life is a game we play _

Their voices come together once again for the bridge, and it’s even better than the first time. Both Gabriel and Sam are in their zone at this point, circling each other and flirting a bit while Gabriel keeps up on the guitar, never missing a chord.

  
_  
We live in the shadows and we had the chance and threw it away  
And it's never gonna be the same   
'cause the years are falling by like the rain   
And it's never gonna be the same   
Till the life I knew comes to my house and says   
Hello   
Hello_

_Hello_

_Hello_

_Hello_

_Hello_

_Hello  
Hello   
Hello_

As the lyrics finish, Gabriel breaks out into a guitar solo, while Sam, caught up in the moment, dances. As the last wavering note falls off Gabriel’s guitar, the whole music store bursts into applause. Breathing heavily, Sam catches Gabriel’s eye, and, just before they take their bows, she feels a burst of heat low in her belly. She’s never had musical chemistry like this with anyone. Not Adam, not Dean, not even Mr. Shurley.

            She is so screwed.

***

Ever since Dean Winchester joined Glee Club a few months ago, his badass persona has taken a few hits. Case in point: his budding friendship with Sam Wesson. That’s right, friendship. The girl has gams that go on for miles, but Dean’s only interested in a platonic relationship with her.

            Crazy, right?

            Dean thinks he’s probably done with girls for a while anyway. He doesn’t like to show it, but the fact that Anna thinks him a big enough loser that she would rather raise their child with _Adam_? Kinda stings a bit. So he’s not the most academically gifted person in the world, and he may be a little overly fond of sleeping with his peers’ mothers. That does not mean he would make a bad father. He guesses that’s out of his hands at this point.

            He feels bad about how things went down, truly. Anna was the first girl in a long time that he had felt he could have actual feelings for. That was rare enough for Dean that he didn’t exactly think through the fact that she was dating his best friend before sleeping with her. And the pregnancy thing was not part of the plan. Sure, Dean knew he wanted to have kids someday, but he’d be lying if he said he was ready to be a father at 17.

            Despite all the shit that’s gone down in the past few months though, Dean can’t say he regrets joining Glee Club, especially because of Sam.

            “Winchester!”

            Speak of the devil.

            Dean gives the Robert Plant poster in his locker a long-suffering stare, before slamming the door shut and turning around. Sam is hurrying towards him, all long brown hair and ridiculously short skirt, and Dean feels a swell of brotherly affection that he beats down as soon as he recognizes it.

            “Wesson. You look especially like jailbait today.” ( **fix this** )

            Sam shoots him a bitchface, but otherwise doesn’t respond to his teasing.

            “I need your help with a song. You play guitar, right?”

            Sam doesn’t wait for an answer before shoving the sheet music in Dean’s face. Entitled bitch.

            “Another song? But your performance yesterday was so great!” Dean injects a healthy amount of sarcasm into his words. Sam, stinging from a rejection from the same stupid asshat who had believed that he could get Anna pregnant from coming in a hot tub, had decided that she needed to ‘teach him a lesson’ through song. Not only had ‘Gives You Hell’ been _entirely_ inappropriate for the lesson that Mr. Shurley had assigned that week, it had been completely wrong for her voice.

            And it isn’t in Dean’s personality to let a blunder like _that_ go.

            Sam rolls her eyes.

            “Shut up, I was expressing my pain. Will you do it?”

            She looks at him expectantly and he sighs.

            “Alright. But since when the hell are you into Oasis?”

            “Since always. What’s wrong with Oasis?”

            “Nothing! Oasis is badass. Did you know the two brothers in it are always like, getting into fights and shit? And you can’t understand them when they actually talk, it’s awesome. I just thought you were only into chick music, that’s all”

            “Chick music?” Sam sounds insulted.

            “Yeah, you know, like Barbra whoever and the Backstreet Boys.”

            “I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Just sing the damn song with me!”

            Dean loves getting Sammy to swear.

            “Alright, alright. I’ll do it.”

            Sam smiles widely and hugs him around the middle. Christ, the girl’s almost as tall as him, she’s frickin gigantic.

            “O.K., no need to get sappy about it.”

            Sam pulls away and starts walking to class, tossing Dean a quick wave over her shoulder. She’s almost halfway down the hall before Dean decides to call out to her.

            “Sam!”

            She turns around inquisitively, and Dean rushes down the hall until he’s standing directly in front of her again.

            “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Adam. What he did to you was real shitty, dumping you and then going out with Ruby and Jess like that.”

            Sam’s smile shrinks by a few molars, but doesn’t disappear entirely.

            “Thanks, Dean. I’ll get over it, I’m sure. Breakup anthems always make these things better.”

            She shrugs philosophically and whaps Dean in the shoulder when his response is a loud snort.

            “I’m sorry about Anna too. I know you really liked her.”

            That girl is entirely too perceptive for her own good, but Anna is the last thing Dean wants to talk about.

            “I’m fine, Sam. I’ll see you in Glee Club.”

            Dean walks away without another word and doesn’t look back.

***

 

           The scene currently taking place in the principal’s office of McKinley High is an odd one. The principal, an intimidating bald man whose nameplate reads PRINCIPAL SAMUEL CAMPBELL, is leaning back in his desk chair, looking at the student across from him with a raised eyebrow.

           “Your name is _what_?”

           The student blinks large blue eyes, seemingly wondering if the principal is stupid, as he had just said his name.

           “Castiel Novak, sir.”

           “That’s what I thought you said. The hell kind of name is that?”

           Castiel’s head slowly tilts to one side. He thinks this man must have brain damage, and despairs at what this implies about the rest of the staff at the school.

           “The one my parents gave me.”

           Campbell rubs his hands over his face, annoyed at this strange teenager.

           “And where are your parents? We do need their permission to enroll you here.”

           “Away.”

           Castiel doesn’t offer any further information, and Campbell just stares at him. After a few moments, when it becomes clear that Castiel would be perfectly content to sit here for the rest of the day, he relents and asks “Did they give you a number where we can reach them?”

           Castiel nods and gives the principal the number. Campbell grabs the phone on his desk and is halfway through dialing the number when another balding man (Castiel wonders if there is something in the water in Lima, Ohio) storms into the room, looking furious.

           “Campbell!” he shouts

            Campbell turns around, the look on his face suggesting that he would like nothing more than to murder the man in front of him.

            “What now, Zachariah?”

           “You want to cut the Cheerios’ budget? May I remind you, Samuel, that my squad is the only thing that gives this mediocre high school any glory?”

           “Actually, that’s not true anymore. The Glee Club just won Sectionals, after all.”

           The look on Zachariah’s face suggests that Campbell has just kicked a puppy.

           “The _Glee Club_? Chuck Shurley’s little band of misfits and nobodies? _That’s_ who you’re cutting my budget for?”

           “The programs at this school deserve much more equal funding than they have been getting. Frankly, your budget is ridiculous. I can guarantee that it is unnecessary to charter a Hummer limo to take your cheerleaders to every competition. And please, there’s a student in here, Zachariah. Calm yourself.”

           Zachariah, who clearly hadn’t known or cared that Castiel was in the room, just looks even angrier. He leans in over the desk slightly, pointing an index finger at Campbell.

          “This won’t be the last you hear from me about this.” He hisses “remember, when those ugly little mouthbreathers don’t place at their next little competition, that club will be history. And you _will_ restore my budget.”

          Zachariah whirls around dramatically and storms out of the office in much the same way that he had come in. Through the windows, Castiel can see him shove several students out of the way as he barrels down the hall. The longer Castiel is at McKinley High, the more he regrets that his Father sent him here.

          And it’s not even eight yet.

          Campbell turns back to Castiel.

          “O.K., look. I’ll call your parents and get this situation squared away later. I’m going to assign you a student guide to show you around school today. Just, _please_ , get out of my office.”

          Given that Campbell still looks homicidal, Castiel decides it will be prudent to obey him. He wanders outside the office and sinks down onto a bench outside of it. Around him, a myriad of students flood the hallway, chatting loudly as they go to their respective destinations.

          It’s quite overwhelming.

          See, Castiel has been homeschooled his entire life until this point. His Father has always been a rather controlling man, and he insisted that he could teach his son better than the Ohio public school system. A week ago, though, his Father had suddenly told Castiel that he was leaving. He didn’t say where, or why, just that Castiel should tell no one that he would be living alone. He had then given orders that Castiel was to enroll at the local public school, told him there would be money deposited in his bank account monthly, and left without another word.

           So Castiel is feeling a bit out of his depth in general.

           He’s snapped out of his brooding a few minutes later by a blonde girl in a cheerleading uniform, who walks right up to him and asks “Are you Casteel Novak?”

           “Castiel” he corrects automatically. “And yes, I am.”

           The girl absolutely beams at him. It’s disconcerting. “Hi! I’m Jessica Moore, but you can call me Jess. I’m gonna show you around school today!”

           This girl is way too excited. But, she seems nice enough, and Castiel has no other way to get around, so he nods at her politely.

           “It’s nice to meet you, Jessica.”

           She beams at Castiel again, and loops her arm through his. He’s surprised, but doesn’t pull away – he doesn’t think he could, the girl is surprisingly strong – and Jessica begins to drag him down the hall.

           “O.K., so your homeroom is down the hall this way. Do you think you’ll join any clubs? I’m a cheerleader, you can probably tell, but I’m also in Glee club. Most people think it’s geeky, but it’s really fun! And sure, Mr. Shurley’s a recently divorced, barely functioning alcoholic who’s madly in love with the guidance counselor, and most of the other members are pretty annoying, like Sam Wesson – you’ll see her, she’s the girl who’s way taller than everyone else -”

           It’s at this point that Castiel tunes Jessica out, letting her natter on as she manhandles him down the hallway.

           It’s going to be a long day.  

***

          Castiel thinks that the rest of his day can’t possibly be so bad. Despite her penchant for babbling, Jessica is a friendly girl, and he is grateful for her company. And it can’t be _too_ hard to relate to the other students. He is the same age as them, after all.

           The first indication that this is wishful thinking comes after second period. Jessica isn’t in his third period class, but she tells him how to get there and they make plans to meet up afterwards to walk to their Spanish class together. As he walks to third period, books clutched to his chest and head down, he nearly runs into another student. He looks up to apologize, and is met with a faceful of freezing cold, cherry scented liquid. It takes him a few seconds, sputtering and blinking ice crystals out of his eyes, to realize that the other student did this on purpose, just to hurt him. His books are soaked, his clothes are stained, and he has the urge to run away, run out of this horrible school and never look back, Father be damned. Before he can do anything, however, another boy shouts

           “Azazel, you bastard! What the hell did this kid do to you, huh?”

           Castiel instantly flinches back, hearing the anger in the voice, half-expecting to get hit with more liquid. Instead, a large hand had closes over his upper arm. He looks up, and is met with a pair of concerned green eyes.

            “Hey, follow me, O.K.? We’ll get you cleaned up.”

           The boy’s voice is soft now, the complete opposite of how it had been when he had shouted at the bully. Castiel follows him dumbly into a nearby men’s room. The boy runs a paper towel under some warm water, and begins to wipe the congealed liquid off of Castiel’s face.

           “So, I’ve never seen you around here. You new or something?”

           Castiel nods.

           “I just started today. My name is Castiel.”

           “Castiel, huh? Bit of a mouthful. I’m Dean.”

           Dean, finished cleaning Castiel’s face, throws away the paper towel and frowns at Castiel’s stained clothing.

           “Shit, looks like your clothes are ruined, Cas. God, Azazel is such a dickbag.”

           Castiel’s a bit confused at the nickname, but he lets it go in favor of more pressing questions.

           “What was that he hit me with, exactly?”

           Dean sighs.

            “It was a slushie. It’s kind of a thing here. The douchier jocks and popular kids like to hit less popular kids with them, some kind of status thing. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

           It’s clear from Dean’s bitter smile that he has been on the wrong end of a slushie attack before, which confuses Castiel. Now that his eyes are no longer stinging, he can see that not only is Dean easily the most attractive person he has ever seen in real life, but he is also wearing a letterman jacket, a clear mark of a jock. Spotting Castiel’s confused look, Dean laughs a little and scrubs his hand over his face.

           “Yeah, I’m on the football team, and I’m not proud to say that I used to laugh at this kind of shit. But, I joined Glee Club at the beginning of the year, and that’s pretty much like painting a target on your forehead, y’know?”

           Castiel doesn’t know. “If it makes you a target, why stay in the club?”

            “Well, once you’re in it, it’s kinda awesome. I mean, we just won a big competition. It feels good to win things once in a while, the football team is shit. Plus, I’ve got the voice of a friggin’ angel, dude. Can’t let that go to waste.”

           The statement should make Castiel dislike Dean. He’s never liked people with large egos. But the smirk Dean throws his way causes a flush to spread over Castiel’s face, and, suddenly, all he wants is for Dean to keep talking.

           “An angel? I sincerely doubt that.”

          “Are you calling me a liar?”

           Dean’s easy grin shows that he’s not offended.

           “You should join Glee Club then. My voice will blow you away.”

           Dean winks at Castiel, and then hands him a bundle of clothing.

          “Here, I had some extra gym clothes in my bag. Change into these, yeah? You’ll be freezing if you try to go around in a slushie-shirt all day.”

           Castiel takes the clothing, overwhelmed at how kind Dean is being to him.

           “You don’t need to do that, Dean.”

           “It’s no trouble, Cas. Just take them. Listen, I’ve gotta go to class, alright? I’ll see you around.”

           “Alright. Thank you, Dean.”

           Castiel enters a stall and begins to change his clothes. Dean calls out “Don’t mention it, dude!” and leaves, the door of the bathroom shutting softly behind him.

           Castiel decides he’s going to join Glee Club.

***

 

           After school, Jessica cheerfully leads Castiel, who is still wearing Dean’s spare gym clothes, to a small, sparse choir room. The only person inside the room when they arrive is an enormously tall girl, who is standing next to a baby grand piano with her back facing the door. Jess rolls her eyes and whispers “Sam Wesson” to Castiel, before skirting the piano to sit in one of the maroon chairs that line the back of the room. Castiel follows her, and notices with surprise and slight alarm that the girl Jess had referred to as Sam is mouthing words to herself, her odd facial expressions coming through even though her eyes are closed. Almost as if she can feel Castiel’s gaze, Sam’s eyes snap open.

           “Jessica, who is this?” she asks, voice taking on a false, overly happy tone.

           “His name’s Castiel. He’s new.”

           As this discussion is taking place, several more students file into the room: a brunette girl wearing an identical copy of Jess’s cheerleading uniform, a boy with a mullet, a tall black boy in a letterman jacket, and another blonde girl. All four new arrivals look at Castiel with varying degrees of interest, and, in the brunette’s case, outright scorn.

           Castiel feels like he’s an animal in a zoo. Or a specimen about to be dissected.

           Sam turns to Castiel, bright smile firmly affixed in place.

           “So, you’re going to join Glee Club? That’s awesome! My name’s Sam, and I’m the female lead of New Directions. On behalf of the rest of the group, let me take this opportunity to welcome you to McKinley High and - ”

           The brunette cheerleader speaks up.

           “Put a cork in it, Sasquatch. You’re not the fucking First Lady.”

           Sam turns indignantly to the other girl, obviously gearing up for a snide remark back, but, at that moment, more students spill into the room, led by Dean, and Castiel stops caring about the catfight in progress.

           Dean, however, is a different story.

           “Sammy here’s got a hell of a lot better chance of becoming the First Lady than you do, whore.” He says to the cheerleader.

           “Suck my dick, Winchester!”

           She’s obviously gearing up for more, but Jess, who’s been looking distressed throughout the exchange, touches her lightly on the shoulder and murmurs reproachfully

           “Ruby. Let it go. Mr. Shurley’s coming.”

           Ruby sinks back into her chair with a huff. Sam looks smug at the turn of events, but sits down herself without any further incident. Dean still looks a little upset, but, when he notices Castiel for the first time, his expression changes to an easy grin.

           “Hey, Cas! You doing alright?”

           Castiel smiles back hesitantly.

           “Yes, Dean. Thank you for your concern.”

           “Azazel didn’t bother you again?”

           “No, I’ve had no further altercations.”

           “Wait, Azazel? You didn’t get slushied on your first day, did you?” Sam interrupts. The look of concern on her face is obviously much more genuine than her former peppiness, and Castiel begins to feel a bit less wary about her.

           “I did have the misfortune of being “slushied” today. Thankfully, Dean helped me afterwards.”

           “Awww, Winchester’s going soft” Ruby snipes.

           Everyone except Jess, who winces softly, completely ignores her.

           Sam still looks distressed.

            “That really sucks. Don’t worry, nothing like that’ll happen to you in Glee Club. We’re a family!”

            Castiel looks doubtfully at the still seething Ruby, who catches his eye and snorts.

           “Look, whatever-the-hell-your-name-is, I may be a bitch, but violence is not my M.O.. I won’t go ghetto on your ass unless you deserve it.”

           This doesn’t reassure him much, but he is pulled out of further contemplation by the arrival of the man who he assumes is the director of the club.

           This man is rather short, and very disheveled. The look on his face suggests that he is overwhelmed by life in general.

            Yet another aspect of McKinley high that disconcerts Castiel.

 

 ***

           Chuck Shurley is not in the mood for this shit today.

           True, he usually loves his Glee club. In fact, they’re often the only thing that gets him through the day. But, he’s getting divorced, he’s unsure of where he and Sarah stand after the whole wedding-that-wasn’t clusterfuck, and he’s kinda hungover.

           Which is why, when he sees an unfamiliar boy with bedhead and gigantic blue eyes, who looks like he’d rather be just about anywhere but here, Chuck nearly starts weeping tears of joy. New blood in the club means he doesn’t actually have to _do_ shit, just listen to the new kid sing while the already underappreciated members of the club look like they want to rip his lungs out and Sam enthuses about having someone else to sing backup for her.

            Chuck scraps his plans for assigning duets to the club (the new kid makes an odd number anyway, and he’ll be damned if he’s singing with Sam again, that was _terrifying_ ), and instead, after clearing his throat to attract the attention of the thirteen unruly teenagers, he locks eyes with the new kid and says, kindly:

            “Hey, there, I’m Mr. Shurley, the director of Glee club. What’s your name?”

            The kid blinks those enormous eyes (seriously, what is he, an anime character?) and answers in a voice that is entirely too gravelly for a teenager “Castiel Novak, sir.”

            O.K., first of all, _no one_ calls Chuck “sir”. That implies respect, and Chuck is self-aware enough to realize that he doesn’t exactly inspire that in spades. Secondly, there is no way in any hell he’s gonna remember this kid’s name.

            “Alright, well, it’s kind of a formality, since we’ve never actually cut anyone from the club, but how about you show us what you’ve got?”

            The kid just looks really fucking confused.

            Chuck sighs. “Sing something.”

            The kid’s forehead smooths out, and he nods once, decisively, before getting up and walking over to Frank the Piano Guy, telling him something in low tones. Frank, who doesn’t look exactly pleasant at the best of times, looks like he wants to shoot something, but gets up without argument to pick up a guitar leaning against the choir room wall.

            Huh, Chuck didn’t know Frank could play guitar. Then again, Chuck doesn’t exactly expend a lot of energy thinking about Frank. He thinks maybe, when he finally gets around to writing his Great American Novel, he’ll have a Frank character. Someone who’s constantly ignored and skipped over, but who is actually the most important character in the work. Yeah, that’s friggin poetic. Chuck really missed his calling becoming a high school teacher.

            Anyway, Frank picks up the guitar and starts playing a simple, haunting, melody that everyone in the room with even the minutest familiarity with musical theatre recognizes immediately. Sam barely stifles a gasp, sitting up just a little straighter in her chair. Castiel begins to sing:  

_One song  
Glory  
One song  
Before I go  
Glory  
One song to leave behind_

           Chuck blinks, momentarily forgetting his alcohol-related woes. This kid is _good_. The gravelly voice translates much better into song than Chuck would have expected, and he clearly knows how to pick a song that’s suited to it.

_  
Find one song  
One last refrain  
Glory  
From the pretty boy front man  
Who wasted opportunity_

           Oh, whatever-his-name-is isn’t _perfect_ , of course. He’s clearly nervous, and lacks the kind of rock-star presence necessary to really nail Roger’s part. That problem is a hell of a lot easier to fix than lacking raw talent, though.

_  
One song  
He had the world at his feet  
Glory  
In the eyes of a young girl  
A young girl  
Find glory  
Beyond the cheap colored lights  
One song  
Before the sun sets  
Glory- on another empty life  
Time flies - time dies  
Glory - one blaze of glory  
One blaze of glory – glory_

           As Castiel holds the note at the end of the verse, he feels his nervousness evaporating, lost to the rush of performance. The way the other members of the club are reacting helps. Ruby has stopped examining her fingernails and looks grudgingly impressed, Sam is beaming at him like a madwoman and Dean – Dean looks absolutely gobsmacked. In a good way. _  
  
_

_Find  
Glory  
In a song that rings true  
Truth like a blazing fire  
An eternal flame  
  
Find  
One song  
A song about love  
Glory  
From the soul of a young man  
A young man_

           Dean’s always been affected by music – it’s the reason he’d joined the Glee Club, despite his better judgment. He can safely say, however, that he’s never been affected by any performance in this way. Sure, Sam’s voice makes him internally beam like a proud big brother ( _very_ internally, he has a reputation to protect), and Anna’s sweet alto usually inspires a melancholy wistfulness (also hidden), but Cas? Cas’s voice causes a wave of slow heat to curl deep in Dean’s belly. This – this could be a problem. _  
  
_

_Find  
The one song  
Before the virus takes hold  
Glory  
Like a sunset  
One song  
To redeem this empty life  
  
Time flies  
And then - no need to endure anymore  
Time dies_

           The club is silent for a moment as the last note and chord fade from the air. It’s Sam who starts the applause, sitting up ramrod-straight in her chair and practically vibrating with excitement, brown **(what the fuck color are Sam’s eyes???)** eyes gleaming as she considers the possibilities this new voice will bring. When the applause fades, Chuck speaks (approximately) the words that are on everyone’s mind.

           “Wow. Cas – Can I call you Cas? That was just fantastic. We need to work on your stage presence, especially if you’re ever going to get a solo in a competition, but you’re very talented. Welcome to the club!”

          Castiel gives a small smile, his confidence bolstered by the praise. He’s never sung in front of a crowd before, and it’s reassuring to hear that his voice is up to the club’s standards.

           “Alright, let’s introduce you to the rest of the club, and then we’ll get started.”

 

***

 

           Sam isn’t quite sure what had made her accept Gabriel’s offer of, or rather demand for, a date at the end of their last meeting. Not only are they competitors, but Gabriel is even more annoying than Dean, and might even give him a run for his money on perviness. She blames hormones.

            So here she is, in a random coffee shop she’s never been to, waiting on her date, who is, by the way, fifteen minutes late. She’s just about to leave in a huff, when soft music starts playing. It’s different from the music in the music store, coming from speakers instead of live, but it’s still so obviously the work of Gabriel. It’s a bold song choice for a first date, but Sam can’t complain. It’s actually one of her favorites. Gabriel steps into view, looking damn good in tight jeans, a jacket, and Chuck Taylors, and begins to sing:

  
 _Our planet is poison, the oceans, the air  
Around and beneath and above you  
_ Sam interrupts with a smile, getting up from her chair and moving to stand in front of Gabriel.

  
_Um, Henry that's true and I totally care_

Gabriel interjects again.  
  
 _I'm trying to tell you I love you_  
  
Sam’s next line is spoken, and she makes sure to play up her surprise for the benefit of the people around her.

  
_What?_   


Most of the people in the coffee shop look annoyed, rather than intrigued (Sam guesses they aren’t used to impromptu live performances over their breakfast. Plebeians.), but Gabriel continues anyway.

  
 _The world is at war  
Filled with death and disease  
We dance on the edge of destruction  
The globe's getting warmer by deadly degrees_  
  
Sam would ordinarily censor the next line, but people are starting to rudely whisper, so she just goes for it.

  
 _And this is one fucked up seduction_  
  
There’s an audible gasp, but Sam barely notices. Gabriel clearly approves of her daring, and is giving her a wicked grin that causes the butterflies in her stomach to go into overdrive. He picks up again, clearly trying to get back to the more serious mood of the song, but not really managing it.

  
 _This planet is pretty much broken beyond all repair  
But one thing is working if you're standing there.  
Perfect for you, I could be perfect for you  
I might be lazy, a loner, a bit of a stoner, it's true  
But I might be perfect,  
I'll make myself perfect,  
Perfect for you.  
You square all the corners,  
I straighten the curves.  
_  
The people in the shop, besides the few who have actually left, seem to be warming up to the performance. Gabriel is just that good, and the lyrics are quite romantic. It’s Sam’s turn again.

  
 _You've got some nerve, Henry  
And I'm just all nerves._  
  
Gabriel has another line.

 _  
But even if everything else turns to dirt  
_  
Before they get to the best part of the song

 _  
We'll be the one thing in this world that won’t hurt._  
  
Their harmony is perfect, if Sam does say so herself, and she had almost forgotten just how well their voices complement each other. Gabriel shoots her another smirk, then, and she knows that he’s going to follow her lead and keep the original version of the next line.

  
 _I can't fix what's fucked up  
But one thing I know I can do  
I can be perfect for you_  
  
Sam comes in.

  
_I can be perfect for you._   
_Perfect for you._

           The final line is sung softly, again in harmony, and Sam can’t wipe the slightly giddy smile off her face as the music ends. A few people clap, but most continue to ignore them. Gabriel gives an elegant bow anyway, unperturbed by their cool reception.

            Sam can’t seem to wipe the dopey smile off her face. The high she always gets from a good performance is reacting with the effect Gabriel has on her in new and unexpected ways.

***

           Sam walks into the choir room the next day, huge smile on her face, only to be greeted by the stony faces of Missouri and Lucifer.

            Oh Christ. That is never a good sign. She goes for the innocent look.

            “Hey guys! What’s up?”

            Their faces don’t move.

            “Sam” Lucifer greets her, inclining his head slightly. “Please sit down.”

            She does, nervousness making her stomach clench and roll, and waits for her sometime friends to tell her what she did wrong today.

            “We’ve heard some… _disturbing_ rumors about your love life.”

            Sam blinks slightly. Her love life is not quite what she was expecting this inquisition to be about. “Are you talking about Gabriel?”

            Lucifer looks at her like she’s a particularly stupid child. “Yes, we are talking about _Gabriel_. Are you insane!? He’s in Vocal Adrenaline!”

            “So?”

            Missouri interjects. “ _So_ , he’s either spying on us to try and figure out how to beat us at Regionals, or he’s trying to get you to join Vocal Adrenaline.”

            Sam frowns. “Is it so shocking that a guy could like me without nefarious purposes?

            “Yes” says Lucifer bluntly. “Gabriel St. James could have any girl he wanted. Why would he want you all the sudden?”

            Sam feels tears begin to rise to her eyes. She does _not_ have to deal with this shit. She stands up abruptly, drawing herself to her considerable full height. “Maybe I will defect to Vocal Adrenaline. They can’t treat me any worse than you do, and hey, then you two would get more solos.”

            Missouri looks apologetic at that, but Lucifer merely snorts. “ _Please_. You would never defect to Vocal Adrenaline.”

            He’s right, of course. Sam deflates, then spits. “ _Fine_. You won’t hear anything else about me and Gabriel.”

            She turns on her heel and marches out the door. She’s serious when she says they won’t hear anything.

            Doesn’t mean it won’t be happening, though.

 

***

 

            The auditorium at Carmel High compares to the one at McKinley in the same way that a cruise liner compares to a canoe. The stage, the lights, the sound system – everything in the space is state-of-the-art. Currently, Gabriel St. James is standing behind the closed curtain on this stage. He’s surrounded by the other members of the elite force that is Vocal Adrenaline, and they’ve been practicing for five hours straight. Gabriel’s pretty fit, despite the epic amount of sugar he consumes daily, and he can still feel the toll that endless dancing has taken on his body, the muscles in his legs, back, and arms aching with fatigue.

            They need to nail this number right the fuck now, or someone might actually die of exhaustion. And that is _so_ not the way Gabriel’s going down. He exchanges a look with the female lead, Hailey, and motions for the stagehands to raise the curtain.

            Showtime.

            The band strikes up a guitar and drum heavy rock beat, and Gabriel’s teammates move into the dance routine with almost robotic precision. Luckily for Gabriel, he gets a bit of a break in this particular number, dancing-wise. At his cue, he steps to the front of the stage and begins to sing

_He hit the ground running_

           A group of girls, led by Hailey, gyrate around him as they sing the counterpoint

_At the speed of light_

          Gabriel steps in again, making sure to play up his facial expressions for the non-existent audience.  
 _The star was brightly shining_

            The girls chime in again  
 _Like a neon light_

           And then it’s all Gabriel, and he’s off, effortlessly slipping into the persona of the lead singer.  
 _It's your favorite son  
It's your favorite son  
A fixture on the talk shows,  
To the silver screen  
From here to Colorado,  
He's a sex machine  
  
It's your favorite son  
It's your favorite son  
But isn't it a drag?  
Isn't it a drag?  
Isn't it a drag?  
It’s pretty but it's sad,  
but isn't it a drag?  
            _Damn, they’re in the _zone_ on this run-through. Gabriel can feel the energy that was lacking in his teammates a few minutes earlier. They’re giving it their all, despite the high-energy dance moves this number requires. And Gabriel sounds good, if he does say so himself. They’re gonna nail it.   
_A clean-cut All-American  
really ain't so clean  
His royal auditorium  
Is a murder scene_  
  
 _It's your favorite son  
It's your favorite son  
But isn't it a drag?  
Isn't it a drag?  
Isn't it a drag?  
It's pretty but it's sad,  
but isn't it a drag?_

           The guitar solo is where the dancing gets crazy, requiring Gabriel to bust out the fancy footwork. It’s difficult to make his last cue, but he manages   
_Well no one says it's fair  
Turn a teenage lush  
To a millionaire  
  
Now where's your fucking champion?  
On a panty raid  
He's not the All-American  
That you thought you paid  
It's your favorite son  
It's your favorite son_

           The members of Vocal Adrenaline strike their final pose, breathing heavily. From the dark of the auditorium at large comes an annoyed female voice.

            “That was decent, I guess, but you guys can do better than that. No way will we be winning Nationals if you’re this lazy.”

           The effect on the performers is instantaneous. Everyone drops the final pose, resigning themselves to another run-through. Somewhere behind Gabriel, someone starts crying. He’s pretty sure it’s Harry.

           “But, it’s almost midnight, and I’m pretty sure keeping you guys this late actually counts as child labor. Everyone can go, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

           A sigh of relief ripples through the group, and everyone begins to walk, limp, crawl, or be carried off the stage. The voice is heard again.

           “Gabriel. I need to speak with you.”

           Gabriel forces a smile on his face and vaults off the stage, walking up to the section of the auditorium where Lisa Braeden is sitting, looking severe.

            “What’s up, boss lady?” he asks.

           Lisa sighs, suddenly looking a lot more human.

           “How’s it going with Sam? Have you talked to her about me yet?”

            Aaaand, there’s the question that Gabriel does _not_ want to think about. He stalls a few seconds by sitting in seat a few feet away from Lisa, putting his aching feet up on the back of the seat in front of him.

           “I’m still getting to know her, Ms. Braeden. It’s not exactly good form to ask a girl searching questions about her surrogate mother on the first date, y’know?”

            Lisa shoots him a sharp look.

           “Date? I asked you to get to know her, not take her out.”

           He shrugs. “It just kinda happened. Besides, she’ll be more open with me if we’re dating than if she thinks I randomly became BFFs with her for no reason.”

           Lisa nods slowly. “I guess that’s true. But remember, Gabriel, she’s my daughter. If you hurt her, I won’t hesitate to take away your lead spot. Is that clear?”

           It’s a bit of an empty threat, as Gabriel is clearly the best performer in the group, but Gabriel’s worried anyway. Ms. Braeden has already proven herself to be weird when it comes to Sam, if the subterfuge is anything to go by. It’s entirely possible that she might value the feelings of the daughter she’s never met over the success of her students.

           “Crystal.”

           “Good. When’s the next time you’re seeing her?”

           “Um. Tomorrow, I think? She’s making us meet in secret. Apparently that Glee Club of hers thinks I have ‘ulterior motives’.”

           “You do.”

           “Not the ones they think. They’re positive that I’m trying to spy on them to see what they’re doing for Regionals, or that I want Sam to defect to Vocal Adrenaline.”

          Lisa snorts. “That’s ridiculous. We’ll kill them at Regionals, no question.”

          “I know. Those kids have a high opinion of themselves, especially because Sam’s the only one of them who has some talent. Honestly, it’s probably gonna take me a few more weeks to bring the subject up with her. Unless…”

          Lisa takes the bait immediately. “Unless what?”

          “I was thinking. What if I transferred to McKinley?”

           “I am NOT losing my lead less than a month before Regionals unless I absolutely have to, Gabriel.”

           “I’m not talking a _permanent_ transfer, Coach. Just long enough for me to get chummy with the other kids, casually bring up how much you _totally_ look like her, then I’ll bellyache about missing my friends at Carmel and transfer back just in time to win Regionals.”

           Lisa hmms softly, considering the proposal.

           “It’s actually not a bad plan. Think you can pull it off?”

           “Please. I’m the best damn actor in Ohio. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

           “Alright then. It’s settled. Come Monday morning, you’ll be a McKinley High student.”

           Gabriel smirks and gets up from his seat, walking towards the auditorium doors. He’s preoccupied with thoughts of how it’ll be to go to the same school as Sam, even for just a little while. There’s something about that girl that’s got him all fucked in the head.

           “Gabriel?”

           Nearly to the door, he turns around. He can’t see Lisa anymore in the gloom of the auditorium, which makes her next words much more ominous than necessary.

           “Don’t screw this up.”  

 

 

           It’s only been a week, and already Sam is tired of hiding her relationship with Gabriel. She’s finally with someone who understands her, instead of looking at her as an irritating know-it-all or a potential slushie victim. Maybe she should’ve prepared an emotional solo to passive-aggressively suggest to Missouri and Lucifer that if they were her _friends_ , they would have given her the benefit of the doubt instead of questioning her dating-relating judgment (O.K., she admits she doesn’t exactly have a flawless track record, hence Adam, and the times she’d thought she was in love with Mr. Shurley and Dean, but _still_ ) instead of working with the others to come up with a kickass possible Regionals number. But, Sam knows she has a reputation as a solo hog, and she’s _really_ trying to work on that. It’s an unattractive quality. Of course, she’d still had to assign parts and do the choreography, because her fellow Glee Clubbers are damn good at bellyaching about how underappreciated they are, but never seem to want to actually _work_ at being appreciated.

            Anyway, she’s totally excited, because they sound _really_ good on this number, _and_ it’s from her favorite show, _and_ everyone had seemed grudgingly appreciative of her hard work and selflessness.

            It would be better if she could’ve told them about Gabriel, though.

           Sam’s fully prepared to launch into her introductory spiel about the number as soon as Mr. Shurley walks into the room, but he’s got the sort of cat/canary look on his face that means he’s either getting somewhere with Ms. Blake or he wants to give them some unnecessarily specific assignment, so she decides he should talk first (he is the Glee Club director, for all it feels like he doesn’t actually do much).

            “Guys, I’ve got some really great news!” Mr. Shurley enthuses (must be the assignment then, he seems to recognize that his students don’t actually care about his vaguely adulterous and stalkerish non-relationship with the guidance counselor) “We have _another_ new student joining us today!”

            The whole club, almost as one, turns to look at Castiel, as though he’ll know something about this through some sort of new kid telepathy or something (he seems far too busy giving Dean puppy dog eyes to care, though).

           When Sam turns back to the front of the room, her jaw drops. Standing next to Mr. Shurley, eating a chocolate bar in that sexually frustrating way he has, is Gabriel. He winks very obviously at her, and Sam feels her entire face flush.

           “Guys, this is Gabriel St. James, and he just transferred here from Carmel High.”

           If Mr. Shurley is expecting his club to give their new member the same sort of welcome they gave Castiel, he’s in for a nasty surprise.

           “Mr. Shurley, he was in _Vocal Adrenaline_ , are we seriously going to let him join!?” is Missouri’s reaction.

           Lucifer opts for “Well, _there_ go any solos I would’ve gotten”, which Sam doesn’t understand, as _she’s_ the one most likely to steal Lucifer’s solos, given the fact that he sounds more like Mika than Gabriel’s Noel Gallagher.

           Gabriel isn’t bothered by the poor reception, like a normal person would be. He removes his chocolate long enough to say “Relax, I’m not here to spy on you or to steal your solos. Just so I can more readily ogle Sammy-Pie’s legs.”

           Christ. Sam knows Gabriel well enough by this point to know that he’s all talk – they’ve made out a bunch, sure, but he’s never pressured her to go further or anything – but from the look on Dean and Adam’s faces, they don’t see eye to eye with her on this matter.

           “Listen here, you little shit -” Dean starts, at the same time Adam says “You can’t talk to her -”

           Sam’s over her shock at Gabriel’s appearance by this point, and is really excited to see him. She’s not in the mood for any alpha-male posturing, especially from Adam, so she interrupts. “Guys. Gabriel is my boyfriend. Be nice.”

           They haven’t actually used the label ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’ yet, but she figures she’d better let him know that he’s not taking her out again without being official, and this is as good a time as any.

           Judging from Gabriel’s grin, softer than his usual smirk, he doesn’t actually have a problem with that.

           Dean still does, though. “You can’t _date_ this asshole!”

           Mr. Shurley gives a weak “Language, Dean.” But everyone ignores him, as usual.

           Sam crosses her arms over her chest and gives Dean her best glare. “In case you’ve forgotten, _Winchester_ , you’re not actually my brother. You have no say in who I do or do not date.”

           Gabriel, still standing at the front of the room, and somehow not looking out-of-place at all, cheers. “Yeah, Sammy! Let’s see a fight!”

           Now he’s just being deliberately provocative. She rounds on him. “You’re not helping, Gabriel. Sit down.”

           Gabriel holds his hands up in the universal ‘alright, alright’ gesture, still grinning maniacally. As he drags one of the empty chairs to squeeze in between she and Dean, he stage-whispers “So you’re a bossy one. _Hot_ ” then straddles the chair, the back of it facing the front of the room. Dean looks like he might actually punch Gabriel in the face for that comment, so Sam decides that she’s had enough.

           “Mr. Shurley, some other members of the club and I have been working on a number that I, for one, think is worthy of being our central number at Regionals. As the performance requires that at least one of the songs must be from a musical, I have chosen a song from the Tony-winning _Spring Awakening_ , the story of the sexual maturing of eleven German teenagers set to a rock score, based on the play of the same name by -”

           Mr. Shurley, who looks decidedly less excited than he did when he first came into the room, interrupts her. “That sounds great, Sam. Let’s hear it.”

           Sam’s slightly miffed that she was interrupted before she could talk about how groundbreaking the 1890 play’s treatment of homosexuality was, but she comes to the front of the room and motions for Frank and the various band members to start the song anyway.

           It starts with a simple guitar part, and Sam takes the beginning.

  
_In the midst of this nothing. This miss of a life.  
Still there's this one thing just to see you go by._

           Missouri, whose voice would make her the perfect Martha or Ilse to Sam’s Wendla, has the next line.  
  
 _It's almost like lovin'. Sad as that is._

  
            Jo’s voice is highly underappreciated, but strong and sweet enough for the part of Thea.  
  
 _May not be cool, but it's so where I live._

  
            Much as Sam dislikes Ruby, she has to admit that the cheerleader’s voice is nearly as good as her own, which is why Sam chose her for Anna.

  
_It's like i'm your lover or more like your ghost.  
I spend the day wondering what you do, where you go. _

_  
_ The next lines are Jo again.

_  
I try and just kick it but then what can I do?  
We've all got our junk, and my junk is you. _   


            Sam joins in with the rest of the girls in the chorus, and they should’ve chosen this for one of the songs in their mash-up.   
  
_See us, winter walking after a storm.  
It's chill in the wind but it's warm in your arms.   
We stop all snow blind, may not be true  
We've all got our junk, and my junk is you._   


           One of the reasons Sam chose this song was because of the variety of parts it had, giving the boys a chance to sing along with the girls. Ash sounds like a rock star on Georg’s part.

  
_Well, you’ll have to excuse me, I know it’s so off.  
I love when you do stuff that’s rude and so wrong.   
  
_

          And Dean does Hanschen, mainly because she can’t help thinking of Castiel as Ernst.  
  
 _I go up to my room, turn the stereo on…  
Shoot up some you in the you of some song.  
_  
           Jo again, and this may just be the most she’s ever sang in Glee club

  
 _I lie back just driftin' and play out these scenes  
I ride on the rush all the hopes all the dreams.  
_  
            Ruby’s so much easier to get along with when she’s performing. It seems like it’s the only time she’s truly happy, the only time when she doesn’t feel the need to cut others down to build herself up.

  
 _I may be neglecting the things I should do.  
We've all got our junk, and my junk is you. _  
  
            They all join together for the end of the song, and Sam thinks this show has some of the best harmonies ever written.

  
_See we still keep talkin' after you're gone.  
You still with me then feels so good in my arms.   
They say you go blind, maybe it's true.   
We've all got our junk, and my junk is you.   
  
It's like we stop time. What can I do?   
We've all got our junk, and my junk is you.   
My junk is you.   
My junk is you.   
You. You. You.   _

            As the music ends, the members of the club who weren’t in the number (except for Lucifer, who isn’t pleased unless he is the only one singing, and in a flamboyant costume, to boot) burst into applause.

            Mr. Shurley, however, looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know, Sam, isn’t that show a bit inappropriate?”

            Sam pouts a little. _No one_ insults her _Spring Awakening_. “It’s not like we did “I Believe” or anything” she points out (rightfully).

            Gabriel chimes in “You should’ve. You’re perfect for Wendla, and you didn’t sing nearly enough in that number.”

            The other members of the club look pissed, but Sam gets this odd fluttery feeling in her stomach, and smiles gratefully at Gabriel as she sits back down.

            Mr. Shurley, clearly looking to reassert his tenuous control over his students, says “Alright, guys. In preparation for regionals, I’ve decided to assign you to come up with duets. They don’t have to be from musical theatre, but it’s cool if you want to try and kill two birds with one stone with this assignment.”

            Dean groans. “Really, Mr. Shurley? Didn’t we just do this _exact same thing_ like two weeks ago?”

            Mr. Shurley looks offended. “It was over a _month_ ago, Dean, and besides, that was for the _ballad_ assignment.”

            Gabriel, clearly thinking that the rest of the club needs _more_ reasons to despise him, stops trying to subtly slide his hand up Sam’s leg and says “I think that sounds like a _great_ idea, Chuck!” He turns to Sam then, asking her to be his partner using only his eyebrows. Sam treats him to a wide, uninhibited grin in return. They’re gonna _kill_ this.

            Mr. Shurley, predictably, chooses that exact moment to be a wet blanket. “Of course, I’ll assign partners randomly, the same way I did last time.”

            Sam barely stifles a groan, but she still makes sure she’s the first one up to pick a name. Maybe she’ll get lucky enough to pick Gabriel’s name.

            Clearly, the fates are not on Sam’s side today, or _ever_.

            The name on the damned piece of paper reads _Anna_.

            Sam can’t think of a person she’d like to do this assignment with less. True, things have been less strained between she and Anna since she stopped chasing after Adam, but there’s still the fact that Sam has been the target of Anna’s sexually charged bullying for most of her high school career.

            Not to mention she’s currently pregnant with Sam’s surrogate brother’s bastard child, which, _gross_.

            Anna doesn’t look any happier than Sam about the assignment, but Mr. Shurley’s clearly at the end of his metaphorical rope for the day, and so they don’t try to appeal the decision.

            Gabriel is the next person in line. He doesn’t look nearly as excited now that Sam’s out of the running, but he pulls his name with an obnoxious flourish anyway.

            His expressive face contorts slightly when he stares at the paper, but his voice is relatively even when he reads out “Adam”.

            Sam winces. She’d found herself, on their coffee date, telling Gabriel all about the herself-Adam-Anna-Dean love quadrilateral. Gabriel had been indignant on her behalf, and when he’d dropped her off at her house, he’d looked her in the eyes and told her, very seriously, that she deserved a hell of a lot better than what Adam had given her.

            He’d spent the next few minutes with his tongue down her throat, but it was the thought that counted.

            Anyway, that little tidbit, along with the fact that Adam seems, incredibly, to be _jealous_ of Gabriel, means that this is the only duet pairing in the world that could possibly be worse than Sam and Anna.

***

           This is a friggin _stupid_ idea, Dean thinks. Sam gets paired up with _Anna_ , of all people, and her jackass of a new boyfriend gets paired up with her jackass of an ex-boyfriend, which, given the glares, is going to end in tears for everyone.

            Really, though, Dean finds himself being reluctantly impressed with Gabriel’s balls. For whatever bullshit reason, Adam is generally known as the most popular guy in school, plus he has at least a foot on the new dwarf, and Gabriel’s glaring at him like he’s gonna rip his face off anyway. Dean thinks Sam must have told him what an all-around dick Adam had been to her, and his reaction is the only thing that makes him reconsider his earlier plan to get the kid acquainted with a dumpster.

            Dean’s still thinking vaguely menacing thoughts, not really knowing who to direct them at anymore, when he hears someone say his name. He startles slightly, and then looks to the front of the room.

            It’s Cas that meets his eyes, and _oh yeah_ , they’re supposed to be picking partners for that duet thing. It’s kinda stupid, but Cas looks super nervous, and Dean actually _likes_ him for some reason, so he finds himself smiling at him.

            Cas doesn’t really return the smile, because he’s a bit of a freak, but the tension in his body relaxes, and he comes to take a seat next to Dean.

            Cas must’ve been the last person to pick a name, because Mr. Shurley claps his hands once, decisively, and announces “Alright guys, I’m gonna cut class a bit short today, so you can meet up with your duet partners and start planning your performance. Next Tuesday, we’ll have Jo and Victor, Sam and Anna, and Gabriel and Adam perform. On Thursday, it’ll be Jessica and Ruby, Lucifer and Andy, Ash and Missouri, and Dean and Cas. I’ll see you guys then!”

            The club disperses with that clear dismissal. Some people, like Jo and Victor, seem pretty happy with the arrangements, but most of the club is wary.

            Cas turns to Dean and looks at him expectantly. Dean blinks a few times before venturing to speak. “So…What’re we gonna do about this thing?”

            Cas gives a little frown. “I expect we’re going to choose a song, rehearse it, and then perform it in front of the group.”

            Dean rolls his eyes. Cas, he has come to learn in the past few weeks, is depressingly literal. “I _mean_ , when should we meet up to talk about it?”

            “Oh. Well, I don’t have much to do besides school and Glee Club practice…”

            Dean gets a little twinge in his stomach at the sadness in Cas’s voice. He’s been pretty wrapped up in his own shit lately, what with the whole baby thing, but he’s noticed that Cas doesn’t really have any close friends yet. The stain of ‘New Kid’ hasn’t quite washed off him yet, separating him from the rest of the Glee Club members, and the rest of the school obviously wrote him off the minute he walked through the choir room doors.

            Dean makes an executive decision, then, that he’s gonna be Cas’s new best friend. And if that’s partly because he thinks Cas might have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen, well, that’s none of anyone’s business.

            See, here’s the thing: Dean goes to a school with fucking _Lucifer_ , alright? He’s seen the shit that kid goes through, just for being, well, ridiculously flamboyant. Dean’s known for _years_ that his desire to chase every skirt he comes across is a good thing, while his occasional appreciation of a good-looking dude should _never ever be acknowledged_. And it’s always been _easy_ , because when Dean says occasional, he means _occasional_. Like, the only dudes he’s ever found attractive are Dr. Sexy and this one waiter at Breadstix.

            But just because it doesn’t happen _often_ doesn’t mean that it doesn’t happen at all, so Dean’s long since come to terms with the idea that he may, possibly, be just a little bit bisexual.

            And then Cas comes along, and all the sudden, he’s fucking _everywhere_. Like oh, look, there’s Cas, speed-walking to third-period Spanish. There’s Cas, sitting in the cafeteria next to all the other friendless losers, looking at his tuna-fish sandwich like it’s the word of God or something. There’s _Cas_ , in Glee Club, staring at Dean with those _stupid_ blue eyes.

            It’s driving him _fucking crazy_. And now? Now there’s this damn duet assignment. Fucking _duets_. Duets are, like, the epitome of romantic, and he’s supposed to sing some love song all cow-eyed, to the dude he’s pretending not to have a crush on.

            So maybe the whole ‘Let’s get Cas to be less of a social reject by becoming best friends with him’ plan isn’t one of Dean’s smartest.

            Whatever, Dean’s a teenager. He’s supposed to have angsty shit like this happen to him.

            Dean shakes his head slightly and blinks. He’s been sitting in his car (a fucking beautiful ’67 Chevy Impala that he loves more than life itself) outside of Cas’s house like a creeper for the last half hour. He and Cas had agreed to meet up at 5:30, after Dean’s football practice, but he’d rang the doorbell and no one had answered. So Dean had been alone and bored, hence the circular reasoning about his non-crush.

            Dean’s just about to give up and go home when he sees Cas running down the street toward his house. Dean goes to the sidewalk to intercept him. “Hey dude, where you been?” he asks, careful not to make it sound like an accusation.

            Cas is bent over slightly, hands resting on his knees, as he tries to get his breath back. And fuck, if that doesn’t make Dean’s mind go straight to the gutter. Cas straightens up and says “Dean, I’m so sorry I’m late. I was caught up in my schoolwork, and I lost track of time.”

            Dean grins. Of _course_ Cas was caught up in homework. Freak. He slings an arm around Cas’s shoulder. “It’s cool, nerd. Now let’s get crackin’ on this duet, huh?”

            Cas looks a bit like a deer in headlights. Dean remembers, too late, that Cas isn’t the touchy-feely type. He can’t remove his arm now without being awkward, though, so he just steers Cas toward the front door.

            As Cas fumbles with his keys, he finds his voice long enough to ask “Have you had any ideas as to which song we should sing?”

            Dean finally drops his arm as they go through the door. “Uh, well…Not so much. It’s just that most of the music I listen to is classic rock, and that stuff isn’t really all that duet-y.”

            Cas tilts his head in that baby-bird way he has (which is _not_ cute, shut up brain) and says “I’m not familiar with that type of music. Which artists do you listen to?”

            He seems genuinely interested, which throws Dean for a loop – he’s used to people rolling their eyes when he starts talking classic rock (or, in Sam’s case, loudly listing all the reasons why it’s terrible) so he’s enthusiastic when he says “Oh man, Cas, we’ve got to give you some musical education! You don’t know Led Zeppelin? AC/DC? Aerosmith? Foreigner? Queen? Black Sabbath? The Who?”

            Cas shakes his head mutely after each artist. Dean doesn’t understand how a teenager could possibly have gone his whole life without _at least_ hearing of the Zep.

            “Jesus, Cas, what _do_ you listen to?”

            Cas smiles slightly. “My Father is a very religious man, so I grew up listening to hymns and such.”

            “That sounds…really fucking boring.”

            “It was.”

            There’s a small silence as both boys look at each other. Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest. It’s just so _easy_ to talk to Cas.

            Cas breaks the silence. “Well, surely one of those artists must have a song that would be appropriate for our duet. Perhaps you could show me some of them?”

            Dean’s suddenly really glad that Cas is his partner, awkward crush notwithstanding. This is going to be _awesome_.

 ***

          They end up going out to sit in Dean’s car to begin Cas’s musical education, since Dean only has his albums on tape. It’s nice, especially since Cas is suitably impressed by Dean’s car. They start with Led Zeppelin, of course. Cas has a notebook in his hands, and he carefully writes down the songs that he and Dean think may be appropriate for their duet. After both ‘A Whole Lotta Love’ and ‘All My Love’ both go on the list (under ‘Stairway to Heaven’ – shortened?), Dean asks “So, are we gonna have to do a love song? Isn’t that what duets are about?”

            Cas shakes his head, tapping his pen against the notebook to the beat of ‘Kashmir’. “Not necessarily. You’re thinking of duets as two people singing to each other, but that’s not the only way it can be done. Our duet will probably be both of us singing to the audience.”

            Dean thinks this over. “That makes sense.”

            “Yes. I don’t think Mr. Shurley would assign the partners randomly if the intent was to sing love songs to each other. I can imagine it would make you uncomfortable, singing to another man.”

            It’s subtle, the way Cas emphasizes the ‘you’ in that sentence, but Dean picks up on it nonetheless. “It wouldn’t make you uncomfortable?” he asks.

            He almost expects Cas not to answer, but, after a few beats of silence he says, so quietly that Dean almost can’t hear it over ‘Immigrant Song’, “It makes me more comfortable, actually.”

            It’s a confession, and one that it is clearly difficult for Cas to make. It’s for that reason, Dean tells himself, that he answers “It wouldn’t make me as uncomfortable as you might think.”

            Cas looks up at Dean, hope warring with disbelief in his eyes, and this is dangerously close to becoming a Moment, so Dean clears his throat, says “Alright, that’s enough Zep for now!” and ejects the tape in favor of a mix he has of his favorite songs by various artists.

            A few seconds later, as they get into the chorus of ‘Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap’, the look on Cas’s face has been replaced with one of horror. Dean smirks at him and reaches to change the song. “Not so much, huh?”

            Cas shakes his head, wide eyed. However, as the next song starts, he begins to look intrigued. “Who is this?”

            “The Who.” Dean answers. The words kick in, and Cas looks at the radio. “I really like this song.” He says, sounding almost surprised.

            “Me too. It’s actually one of my favorites.” The smile on Dean’s face mirrors the one on Cas’s and, in that instant, he knows they’ve found their duet.

***

           Dean bids Castiel goodbye over two hours later, flushed and grinning. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Castiel sinks to the floor.

            He’d thought that his feelings for Dean were a harmless crush, appreciation for his looks combined with leftover hero worship from the time Dean had saved him from Azazel.

            Now, he’s not sure at all.

            He’s never actually felt this way about another person before; never had a _chance_ to feel this way, actually. That, combined with the fact that Dean is a man, makes the situation…complicated.

            It’s not that Castiel has any compunction about male on male relationships. For all that his Father is a bit of a religious fundamentalist, he has always taken exception to organized religion’s treatment of homosexuality, and has never been afraid to tell his son so.

            (“God is _love_ , Castiel. He is utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.”)

            But Castiel is observant, rather more so than people give him credit for. He’s watched Dean, learned about him – and discovered that not one of his fellow students suspects Dean is less than one hundred percent heterosexual.

            The way Dean had brought it up in the car earlier suggests that he doesn’t _want_ them to suspect.

            And that, right there, is the problem that Castiel has with this whole situation. He suspects that Dean may want them to have something, to _be_ something – under the condition that it remains a secret. Castiel hopes that he is mistaken about this, that Dean is more honorable than that. Castiel has seen enough films to realize that secret relationships _never_ work out, and that’s not even considering the fact that Castiel hates lying.

***           

            (Sam and Anna's duet)

_This is how it works  
It feels a little worse  
Than when we drove our hearse  
Right through that screaming crowd  
While laughing up a storm  
Until we were just bone  
Until it got so warm  
That none of us could sleep  
And all the Styrofoam  
Began to melt away  
We tried to find some worms  
To aid in the decay  
But none of them were home  
Inside their catacomb  
A million ancient bees  
Began to sting our knees  
While we were on our knees  
Praying that disease  
Would leave the ones we love  
And never come again  
  
On the radio  
We heard November Rain  
That solo's really long  
But it's a pretty song  
We listened to it twice  
'Cause the DJ was asleep  
  
This is how it works  
You're young until you're not  
You love until you don't  
You try until you can't  
You laugh until you cry  
You cry until you laugh  
And everyone must breathe  
Until their dying breath  
  
No, this is how it works  
You peer inside yourself  
You take the things you like  
And try to love the things you took  
And then you take that love you made  
And stick it into some  
Someone else's heart  
Pumping someone else's blood  
And walking arm in arm  
You hope it don't get harmed  
But even if it does  
You'll just do it all again  
  
And on the radio  
You hear November Rain  
That solo's awful long  
But it's a good refrain  
You listen to it twice  
'Cause the DJ is asleep  
On the radio  
(oh oh oh)  
On the radio  
On the radio - uh oh  
On the radio - uh oh  
On the radio - uh oh  
On the radio _

_***_

(Gabriel and Adam's duet)

_One, two princes kneel before you  
That what I said now  
Princes, princes who adore you  
Just go ahead now  
One has diamonds in his pockets  
That's some bread, now  
This one said he wants to buy you rockets  
Ain't in his head, now  
  
This one he got a princely racket  
That's what I said now  
Got some Big Seal upon his jacket  
Ain't in his head now  
You marry him, your father will condone you  
How 'bout that now  
You marry me, your father will disown you  
He'll eat his hat, now  
  
Marry him, marry me  
I'm the one that loved you baby can't you see?  
Ain't got no future or family tree  
But I know what a prince and lover ought to be  
I know what a prince and lover ought be  
  
Said if you want to call me baby  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to tell me maybe  
Just go ahead now  
And if you wanted to buy me flowers  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to talk for hours  
Just go ahead now  
  
Said one, two princes kneel before you  
That what I said now  
Princes, princes who adore you  
Just go ahead now  
One has diamonds in his pockets  
That's some bread, now  
This one said he wants to buy you rockets  
Ain't in his head, now  
  
  
Marry him, marry me  
I'm the one that loved you baby can't you see?  
Ain't got no future or family tree  
But I know what a prince and lover ought to be  
I know what a prince and lover ought be  
  
Said if you want to call me baby  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to tell me maybe  
Just go ahead now  
And if you wanted to buy me flowers  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to talk for hours  
Just go ahead now  
And if you want to call me baby  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to tell me maybe  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to buy me flowers  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to talk for hours  
Just go ahead now  
If you want to call me baby  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to tell me maybe  
Just go ahead now  
If you want to buy me flowers  
Just go ahead now  
And if you like to talk for hours  
Just go ahead now  
Oh Baby!  
Just go ahead now  
Oh!  
Just just go ahead now  
Oh, your majesty!  
Just go ahead now  
Come on forget the King who... marry me!  
Just go ahead now  
Come on, come on, come on  
Just go ahead now  
Go ahead now  
Just go ahead now_

            The duet ends in dead silence. Gabriel and Adam aren’t even trying to hide their mutual animosity,

***

            Due to the unmitigated disaster that the first day of duets had turned into, the atmosphere in the choir room is tense as the second day begins.

            Castiel, who had been feeling quite confident about he and Dean’s duet, is much more nervous than he expected to be. It was one thing to practice, just the two of them, and quite another to actually perform in front of the others.

            Luckily, they are scheduled to perform last.

            First up is Ruby and Jess, who sing a flirty version of “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure. Dean had assured Castiel that Ruby and Jess weren’t actually dating (confessing that he, himself, had dated Ruby for a time, which Castiel found ridiculously amusing), but he has a hard time believing it as he watches them sing. They’re in sync in a way that none of the others have been so far, Ruby’s strong and sultry voice complementing Jessica’s softer and sweeter one. The song choice is interesting too, translating well into the duet.

            Next up comes Lucifer and Andy. Andy looks even twitchier than usual, and Dean’s snort of amusement when Lucifer announces the song (“We will be performing “Are You There?” from the work of genius _Bare: A Pop Opera_ ) indicates that he knows why. Castiel looks at Dean questioningly, and Dean leans over to murmur “I heard about _Bare_ from Sam. It’s a musical about these gay guys. Andy’s not a homophobe, but everyone knows that Lucifer has this enormously creepy crush on him”.

            Castiel understands a little better, then. Even he’d be uncomfortable to be the subject of Lucifer’s advances, and he’s actually attracted to men.

            However, Dean’s assessment is actually wrong. True, Lucifer’s part in the song is exactly what one might expect – lamenting dramatically about his boyfriend – but Andy seems to be singing about something completely different. Castiel supposes he’d have to be more familiar with the source material to really understand what the song’s about.

            All in all, it’s a pretty good performance, especially when Andy relaxes a little. It’s lower than the songs that Lucifer usually sings, and Castiel’s surprised that his voice sounds just as good in a lower register. Lucifer, like Sam, can be annoyingly aware of his talent, but he can certainly back it up.

            Then, Ash and Missouri step up and announce their song (“We decided to do ‘Don’t Do Sadness/Blue Wind’ from _Spring Awakening_.” Missouri says, and Sam beams like a lunatic) and Castiel’s butterflies return full force. He can barely pay attention to the performance (which is a shame, because what he _does_ hear is amazing) and, before he knows it, everyone’s applauding its end.

            Castiel is afraid for a moment that his legs have actually stopped working. He’s frozen to his chair, heart pounding a mile a minute, stomach clenching and rolling. This is _not_ a good idea. He knows, in that instant, that there is absolutely no way that he’s going to get through this without outing himself.

            Dean, damn him, seems completely unaware of his partner’s newfound reluctance to move. He all but leaps to his feet,  

_Out here in the fields  
I fight for my meals  
I get my back into my living  
I don't need to fight  
To prove I'm right  
I don't need to be forgiven  
  
Don't cry  
Don't raise your eye  
It's only teenage wasteland  
  
Sally, take my hand  
Travel south crossland  
Put out the fire  
Don't look past my shoulder  
The exodus is here  
The happy ones are near  
Let's get together  
Before we get much older  
  
Teenage wasteland  
It's only teenage wasteland  
Teenage wasteland  
Oh, oh  
Teenage wasteland  
They're all wasted!_

***

           It’s only a month later that Sam and Gabriel’s relationship goes to shit.

            Gabriel’s been acting strangely for about a week when Sam decides to take matters into her own hands. He’s been talking about Carmel nearly nonstop, and on the rare occasion that he’s _not_ talking about Carmel, he’s asking Sam about her family.

            Yeah, Sam has two dads, and she knows that _someone_ had to give birth to her. In fact, the story of her birth is a Wesson family legend (she’s been told that her dad’s selected the smartest, prettiest, and most talented woman they could find as a surrogate, and had then mixed their sperm together and used a turkey baster, so that they didn’t know which of them was her actual father. There are two problems with this story: one, it’s downright _disturbing_ how much she knows about her fathers’ sperm, and two, one of her dads is black, and she is most assuredly white. It’s kind of obvious which one sired her.). In spite of that, Sam’s never really been all that curious about her biological mother. Sure, it could be interesting to know the woman, but it’s not like Sam feels the absence of a mother in her everyday life. She has two perfectly good parents, thank you very much; she doesn’t need a glorified egg donor to complicate things.

            This seems nearly incomprehensible to Gabriel, who is utterly convinced, for whatever reason, that Sam’s hiding a deep, burning desire to know her birth mother. It’s annoying as fuck, actually, that she can’t seem to convince him otherwise.

            Anyway, over the last few days, Gabriel’s behavior has gotten even more bizarre. Since they started dating, they’ve been hanging out after school nearly every day. Now, she hasn’t seen him outside of school in _four days_. And his excuses are utter shit. Today, he’d actually told her he “needed to see a man about a horse”. Who does he think he is, Paul Revere?

            So Sam, who is both curious and needy (she’s just gonna own it), decides to follow him, see what he’s really up to.

            It’s not that she thinks he’s _cheating_ on her, exactly. Still, she can’t help the lingering feeling of doubt, left over from her relationship with Adam. She refuses to be that pathetic again, though.

            If there’s someone else, it’s over.

 ***

           Gabriel pulls his beat-up old pickup into a parking spot in Carmel High’s enormous parking lot and drops his head to his hands.

            Not only does he absolutely _hate_ lying to Sam, he’s apparently complete shit at it. She’s not even pretending to buy his stories anymore, just looking a mix of suspicious and hurt whenever he tells her he can’t spend time with her. It makes him feel like the biggest fucking jerk on the planet.

            And Sam’s the last person who deserves to be treated like this. She’s been through the ringer already, with the way her so-called ‘friends’ treat her. He’d told her once that she deserved better than that, and here he is, doing the exact same thing.

            He shakes his head and exits the car, heading for the entrance to the school. He doesn’t know what to _do_ in this situation. He can finish the job that Lisa sent him to do, then go back to his old Glee Club, breaking Sam’s heart in the process.

            Or, he can turn his back on all his friends in Vocal Adrenaline, betray a woman who’s just trying to have a relationship with her daughter, and stay with Sam.

            The only thing he _does_ know is that he has to pick an option. He’s not going to be able to dupe Sam and Lisa for much longer.

            As Gabriel enters the auditorium, one of his problems presents herself. Lisa’s not a patient woman at the best of times, and her personal investment in Gabriel’s mission has caused her to lose what little tolerance (and frankly, _sanity_ ) she does possess. She’s been hounding him daily about his progress with Sam, and he hasn’t had the heart to tell her that her daughter is uninterested in meeting her quite yet. Today is no different.

            “Gabriel!” Lisa’s ordinarily pretty face is twisted in displeasure. “I’d like to speak to you alone, please.”

            Gabriel goes, just like he’s gone _every_ time this happened. “Yeah, Ms. Braeden?” he asks, not even trying to come up with anything witty to say, which shows the sheer exhaustion that he’s feeling with this situation.

            “Gabriel.” Lisa says, grimacing as though his name leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “It’s been over a _month_. Please give me some good news.”

            Gabriel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, desperately craving some sugar. “I’ve told you, Ms. Braeden, she doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

            “How on earth could she _not_ want to talk about it!?” Lisa suddenly yells. Gabriel’s taken aback: this is the first time Lisa’s hit quite this level of crazy. She begins to pace up and down the hallway outside the auditorium. “You’re telling me that a girl who was brought up by two men isn’t the _slightest_ bit interested in meeting her biological mother?”

            There’s a gasp behind them, then. Gabriel somehow knows what he’s going to see before he turns around, but he can’t help hoping…

            Sam is behind them, and she looks absolutely devastated. Before Gabriel can get a word out, can say _something_ to try to fix this fucked up situation, Lisa steps forward. “Oh, this is perfect!” she says, a false kind of brightness in her voice. “Sam, my name is Lisa Braeden, and -”

            Sam gets her voice back. “I don’t _care_ what your name is!” she spits. Gabriel has never heard her this angry. She’s like a completely different person.

            Lisa looks as though she’s been slapped. “But I’m your _mother_!” she says, emphatically, as though Sam could have somehow missed this fact the first time around.

            “You are the woman who gave birth to me.” Sam shoots back without missing a beat.

            “That’s the same thing!” Lisa protests.

            “It’s really not.” Sam gives a harsh laugh. “I may have your DNA, _Ms. Braeden_ , and your affinity for show choir, but I already have parents, and you’re not one of them. Besides, why in the Hell would I want a relationship with a woman who uses one of her students to _manipulate_ me?”

            Gabriel sees his chance. “Sam -” he starts, but she cuts him off, transferring all her rage from Lisa to him.

            “I don’t want to hear a _word_ from you, you lying _coward_.” She hisses. “What, did you think you were gonna get a little ass on the side while you did her dirty work? Well fuck you both!” she turns on her heel and starts marching away, but turns back before she gets to the end of the hallway. “I’ll see you at Regionals.” She calls, challenge obvious in her voice.

            Gabriel starts to run after her, then, but she’s got long legs, and she’s gone before he gets outside.

            _Fuck_.

 

 ***

_You are my sweetest downfall  
I loved you first, I loved you first_

           Sam stands in the front of the choir room, looking at her fellow Glee Club members. Although many of them had warned her about the dangers of getting involved with Gabriel, there’s so scorn or superiority in any of their eyes now.

           Just a whole lot of pity.

_  
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth_

           She sounds really good on this song, voice strong and clear, even on the notes that are normally just a bit too high for her. She can’t feel any satisfaction though. All she can picture is the way Gabriel used to watch her as she sang, eyes sharp and body canted forward, as he would prepare to give her his honest opinion.

_  
I have to go, I have to go  
Your hair was long when we first met_

           The thought she keeps coming back to is “I should’ve known”. The second she saw him in that music shop, cocky smirk firmly in place, she should’ve known he would destroy her.

_  
Samson went back to bed  
Not much hair left on his head  
He ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed  
And history books forgot about us and the bible didn't mention us  
And the bible didn't mention us, not even once_

           The worst thing is that a part of her always _did_ know. The part of her she’s so proud of, the analytical part that’ll make her one hell of a lawyer if the Broadway thing falls through, knew that the relationship was too good to be true. _  
  
_

_You are my sweetest downfall  
I loved you first, I loved you first_

           Turns out that for all her levelheadedness, all it takes is one boy, one short, snarky, perfect boy, to shatter her.

_  
Beneath the stars came falling on our heads  
But they're just old light, they're just old light  
Your hair was long when we first met_

           The feeling she has now couldn’t be more different from the feeling she’d had when Adam dumped her. It sounds awful, but her fascination with Adam had always been based on status. Sure, she’d thought he was cute and funny, but she had never really _known_ him, and frankly, she had never really cared to. He was the popular boy that would catapult her to the top of the social heap, the Jake Ryan to her Samantha Baker.

_  
Samson came to my bed  
Told me that my hair was red  
Told me I was beautiful and came into my bed_

           Gabriel had never been like that. Sure, he was hot shit on the show choir circuit, but he had never given off the impression that he had cared about that sort of thing. When she was with him, Sam didn’t care about that sort of thing either. Why should she, when she was enjoying herself so much, when their encounters had been full of so much frustration, laughter, _passion_ …

_Oh I cut his hair myself one night  
A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light  
And he told me that I'd done alright  
And kissed me 'til the morning light, the morning light  
And he kissed me 'til the morning light_

           Gabriel had made her feel more than she’d ever thought possible. And then he had cruelly ripped that away.

_Samson went back to bed  
Not much hair left on his head  
Ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed  
Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down  
Yeah we couldn't destroy a single one  
And history books forgot about us  
And the bible didn't mention us, not even once_

           There are tears freely streaming down her face now, a fact that would ordinarily cause her embarrassment. But she’s too far gone to care at this point, too angry, sad, heartbroken to give a flying fuck what her classmates think.

           At least Gabriel’s given her that. It’s refreshing, not to care.

_You are my sweetest downfall  
I loved you first_

           Sam doesn’t wait for the last note of the piano to fully fade out before she goes back to her seat.

 ***

           It’s about two weeks later, Gabriel’s betrayal still fresh in Sam’s mind, when the club piles onto the bus to make their way to Regionals, where they’ll be facing Vocal Adrenaline. Facing Gabriel. In contrast to the excitement they had displayed on the way to Sectionals, the club is subdued. The situation with Gabriel, Cas’s stony refusal to speak to Dean, and the knowledge that they are about to go head-to-head with a nationally recognized show choir juggernaut has robbed even the least invested members of the club of their spark.

            Not to mention, everybody, Chuck included, is nervous that Anna’s actually going to go into labor during the performance. Even if she doesn’t, having such a heavily pregnant girl in their club will only hurt them. The judges will be evaluating not only the vocals the club has to offer, but their visuals as well – and costumes and dancing are where Vocal Adrenaline already has an advantage over New Directions.

            Sam’s sitting next to Dean on the bus.


End file.
